


Bite Size Love

by Malibusunset



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9326621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malibusunset/pseuds/Malibusunset
Summary: Season 7, my way.This is a prequel to my series, Terra Firma, but it's not necessary to read that too. This one stands alone.





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Bite Size Love (Prequel to the Terra Firma series)

Author: Malibu Sunset

Email: [malibusunset88@gmail.com](mailto:malibusunset88@gmail.com)

Category: MSR, first time, angst

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Everything through Season 7.  Strong references to Millennium, Rush, Orison, Signs and Wonders, Sein und Zeit, First Person Shooter, En Ami, All Things, Hollywood A.D., Je Souhaite, and Requiem. 

Summary: Season 7 MSR story.  It is a prequel to my Terra Firma series, but it can be read as its own separate entity for those who don't care for family fic. This piece was written after I completed all five parts of Terra Firma.  

Disclaimer:  Not mine, all theirs, but I love them like they were my own.

Author's Note: Only in 1013 World can a woman be pregnant for an entire year. I decided to stick with canon and have Scully conceive between April-May, 2000, but I took the liberty of moving Requiem to June because it fit better in my story. In Terra Firma, William is born in May, 2001, also according to canon. This is completely schizophrenic, I do realize. Don't blame me; I did the best I could with what they gave me (palms up and shoulders shrugging).  

Thanks: To all fans of Terra Firma who encouraged this piece. Your feedback and kind words mean more than you know. To Tanya, for cheering me on and for being a friend. I hope we get to meet someday.

 

 

 

New Year's Day, 2000

 

She had eaten two scrambled eggs and rye toast with real butter this morning, without even stopping once to consider her cholesterol, which was, let's face it, far below normal anyway. Still, it was borderline living-on-the-edge for her. Then she had stepped into the shower and left the dirty dishes in the sink, unscraped and unrinsed, which seriously challenged her OCD in some tantalizing ways. She could've even left the crusty egg plate on the table instead of bothering to carry it to the sink, but that might have been a little too much. She knew her limits and could only embrace irresponsibility in increments.

"Good things come to those who wait, Dana," her mother had always said. She pondered this while massaging shampoo into her scalp. When she was eight-years-old, it had meant waiting for Christmas or her birthday to get the things on her wish list – a pair of metal rollerskates that clamped onto her sneakers or a new bicycle with a flowered basket on the front and pink streamers on the handlebars. When she was sweet sixteen, it had meant waiting until she and David Markley had been dating at least a month before she let him feel her up underneath her shirt, even though he had already kissed her dozens of times, several with tongue. As it turned out, David had been an especially worthy opponent against bra clasps, something she found out before month two.

When she was in her twenties, waiting meant putting her personal goals on the back burner in order to pursue her career – medicine, then the Bureau. She was a traditional girl at heart. The American Dream held appeal for her. She wanted it all – a stable and happy marriage, smart and talented kids, annual vacations to exotic destinations, a house with curb appeal and a manicured lawn. But good things come to those who wait, so she had waited. And waited.  And waited. And now she was tired of waiting and was ready for her good things to come.

The problem was, she wasn't entirely sure if the good things she wanted now were the same good things she used to want.  After all she had experienced, all she had seen in the last several years, she was no longer the same person. At times, the desire for an ordinary life was still there; other times, it seemed ridiculously simplistic and meaningless.

And then there was Mulder. Somewhere along the way, her existence had become intertwined with his and she no longer really knew who she was apart from him. She was sensing, especially lately, that the ground beneath them was shifting, aligning, becoming. But what it was becoming was the real question. There was love, of course. There had been for a long time. And desire, despite years of trying to talk herself out of that one too.

Last night he had kissed her. It had been the kind of kiss that had left her with more questions than answers.  They hadn't discussed it afterward, but since when did they really talk about anything? What she really had to figure out was whether that spinning feeling she got was from the kiss or from thirty-six hours with no sleep and a bad diner meal.

When she turned off the shower, her phone was ringing and she made a run for it, grabbing a towel from the rack and dripping her way to the nightstand in her bedroom. Her wet feet left perfect five-toed footprints on the plush carpet.

"Hello." She cradled the receiver between her ear and shoulder while she wrapped and tucked the towel. Her hair dripped tributaries between her shoulder blades.

A hoarse voice struggled on the other end. "Hi, Honey."

"Mom? Mom, you sound awful. What's wrong?"

"Oh, just a nasty cold, nothing to worry about. I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company today, though. I think we'd better reschedule."

She and her mom had a standing New Year's Day arrangement. Old movies and comfort food. She had been due at her mother's house in another hour.

"Are you running a fever? Why don't I stop over anyway and take a look at you?"

"Dana, that's completely unnecessary. I think I can diagnose the common cold in myself. It's nothing some rest won't take care of. I'll call you tomorrow."

"If you're sure. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

The call ended and Scully stood there dripping on the carpet, contemplating how to pass a New Year's Day by herself.

*************************************************************************************

The next time her phone rang, Scully was removing a second hot cookie sheet from the oven. She fumbled for the receiver with an oven mitt on, trying to pick up before the fifth ring when the answering machine would kick in.

The edge of her pinky finger grazed the corner of one scalding cookie sheet just as she was hitting the "talk" button on the phone. "Ow, damn, hello."

Silence for a beat, then, "Scully? Bad time?"

"Hi. No, I'm just taking hot cookies out of the oven and I accidentally touched a cookie sheet." She switched the phone to her left hand and sucked on her right pinky finger. "Mm, that smarts."

"Do you need me to kiss it and make it better?" he asked.

"You're offering to drive all the way over here to kiss my finger?" She smiled at this common repartee between them.

"Depends. What kind of cookies?"

"Oatmeal raisin."

A sigh. "Why not chocolate chip?"

She could almost visualize his little boy pout.

"First of all, I didn't have any chocolate, and second of all, beggars can't be choosers."

"First of all, since when does a woman not have any chocolate around, and second of all, since when do you bake, Scully?"

"I bake. Sometimes. You don't know everything about me, Mulder."

"Clearly. So what – you're just going to bake cookies and eat them all by yourself on New Year's Day? What happened to the movie marathon with your mom?"

"She's not feeling well. And how did you know I was planning to watch movies with my mother?"

"You were talking about it on the phone with her in the office last week. And that's what you always do on New Year's Day."

How did he remember these things when she could barely recall what she ate for dinner last night? Oh yeah, bad diner food. She should've known better than to order anything off a menu in a place that proudly advertised itself as "Home of the Garbage Plate."  She could tell Mulder had been tempted.

"So is that why you called? To find out how I'm spending my holiday?"

"No, actually, I was sitting here filling out the expense report and I wondered if the receipt for my rental car might be comingling in a dark folder with yours? I can't find it."

She transferred cookies onto a baking rack with a spatula, smooshing one in the process. She broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth because the unspoken rule was that any cookies damaged in the baking process should be eaten immediately, without guilt. "You're doing an expense report on your day off, Mulder? How is that possible when you can't even manage to do them when we're in the office?"

"Well, I already ran six miles, did my laundry, and the Dr. Who marathon doesn't start until three."

"I'm a little afraid to ask, but why the sudden burst in productivity?"

"It's a new year, Scully. Resolutions and all that nonsense. I have high expectations for the year 2000."

A sudden flashback of his lips connecting with hers and that jumpy feeling in her stomach, like she'd swallowed a tadpole, sashayed through her brain. She wondered if his high expectations had any kind of personal agenda to them, or if he was speaking strictly professionally. 

"Hang on. Let me check on the car receipt." She carried the rest of her uneaten cookie with her to the desk and sifted through some work files on top. "Um, yes. I have two Hertz receipts. Do you need it now or can it wait until tomorrow? Because I'm fully committed to avoiding work at all costs today, Mulder. Even if it's just to eat oatmeal cookies and clean my apartment."

He chuckled. "It can wait. Enjoy your day off, Scully. I'll see you tomorrow."

She hung up and looked at the two dozen freshly baked cookies on her kitchen counter. Why did she bother? She'd never allow herself to eat more than a couple anyway. She should have invited him over for cookies, but somehow it sounded weird or desperate or something. She could hear it now – "Mulder, do you want to come over and eat my cookies?" She snorted out loud. Mulder didn't have the market cornered on suggestive innuendo; he was just the only one who said them out loud. Sometimes she could actually make herself blush at the things that would float through her head when she was around him.

The cookies cooled on the counter, filling her apartment with a very uncharacteristically homey smell. She grabbed a bucket of cleaning supplies and rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink and headed for her bathroom, making a detour through the living room to crank up the stereo a few notches.

*************************************************************************************

The entire contents of her refrigerator were littered across her countertop when there was a knock at the door. Scully rose from where she had been kneeling and scrubbing out the crisper drawers. She blew a loose tendril of sweaty hair from in front of her eyes and glanced at the clock on the microwave, which she suddenly realized could probably stand to be cleaned as well. 5:25 p.m.

It wouldn't be, would it? She trotted to the door and glanced through the peephole. Good God, really? She sighed, taking in her reflection in the mirror that hung over the small table by the door. Black drawstring workout pants, bare feet, her grey fitted Navy T-shirt with no bra on underneath, and yellow rubber gloves to top off the look.  She swung the door open.

"Hi, Mulder. Why aren't you wearing your sling?" She gestured toward his arm, her mouth pursed in disapproval.

"Happy New Year to you too, and because it's a pain in the ass."

His eyes made a quick pass over her, stalling a beat on the T-shirt. She needed to go put a bra on, pronto. "Did I catch you at a bad time?" He was smiling and clutching a brown paper bag in his good arm. She eyed it curiously.

"No, come on in. I was just cleaning out my refrigerator."

He followed her inside and closed the door behind him. "Don't throw anything out until I look at it," he said. "Your standards regarding what's still edible and mine differ widely, and I haven't eaten since breakfast."

She rolled her eyes and walked back into the kitchen with him trailing her. "What's with the bag?" she asked, gesturing to his arms. He handed it to her and she unrolled the top cautiously. Her brows took a hike. "DVDs and..." she pulled out a blue and yellow box, "Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Mulder?"

He smiled, smugly. "It's comfort food, Scully. To go with the movies."

"It's college food, Mulder. Which movies did you bring?" She couldn't imagine what he would've picked. Or maybe she could and that was what really scared her. She pulled out a stack of three DVDs in plastic cases.

"Sleepless in Seattle, The Wedding Singer, and When Harry Met Sally?" She smirked. "Um...okay. Who died and bequeathed their entire chick flick collection to you?"

"Those are movies girls like, right?" He searched her face for approval and his expression made him look like he was about fifteen and hoping he had gotten the right corsage to match his date's dress.

"Some girls, I guess."

He looked stricken.

She manufactured a warm smile, becoming aware that this was obviously more important to him than she originally realized. "I've actually never seen The Wedding Singer."

He beamed, his attention quickly diverting to the plate of oatmeal cookies on the counter. "Then we'll start with that one." He began shoveling cookies into his mouth.

"Help yourself," she said, brows raised.

He munched happily. "Mm, theesh're really goo, Shcully."  

"They're even better when you chew them," she said, transferring items back into her clean refrigerator. She took the top off a Tupperware container and held the contents over the garbage disposal.

"Whoa, whoa, hang on with that. What is it?" he asked, a third cookie perched between his fingers. "Maybe I want it."

"It's four-day-old chicken salad."

He took the container from her and raised it to his nose. "Looks fine. Smells even better. Grab me a fork, will ya?"

She handed him one, warily. "How have you survived this long, Mulder?"

"There is a series of complicated answers to that question, Scully." He smiled through a forkful of food.

"I'm going to go get cleaned up and change my clothes," she said. "I'd tell you make yourself at home, but I guess we're beyond that." She scrunched her nose, watching him clean out her Tupperware container.

"What's wrong with what you're wearing? I think the T-shirt's especially... nice." He smiled.

Her cheeks pinked and she studied her bare feet.

He cleared his throat. "Hey, I can make the mac and cheese for us while you're changing."

"Knock yourself out. Pans are in the cupboard below the coffee maker, colander in the next one over."

She closed her bedroom door and stripped off her clothes quickly. A concentrated sniff of herself told her that a second shower wasn't necessary. She hadn't broken much of a sweat while cleaning. But wait. Crap, had she bothered to shave her legs recently. She ran a palm over one calf. Passable. And Jesus, why did it matter? They were only going to be watching movies. It wasn't like she was going to jump into bed with him. Absolutely, positively not. Yet anyway.

She armed herself with a solid reapplication of deodorant, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and slipped into practical cotton underwear, because anything else would have been presumptuous and maybe, just maybe, a tempt of fate. Her favorite well-worn jeans and light blue, button-front sweater rounded things out.

She looked in the mirror and smoothed her hair behind her ears. Not bad. Maybe just a touch of makeup. She opened the top drawer of the bathroom vanity and pulled out her cosmetic bag, then applied a very modest amount of eyeliner, smudging it a little with the edge of her finger. A tiny bit of eyeshadow came next, but she rubbed it off the second after applying it because it looked like she had put makeup on. She didn't want to look like she had put makeup on for him. No eyeshadow. One light swipe of mascara and a dab of lip gloss. Best to skip the blush altogether. She had the feeling her cheeks would have a glow to them all on their own.

Dammit, why did one kiss have to change everything? She felt a twinge of animosity and resentment toward him. How dare he show up unannounced and just assume she'd want to spend her evening watching movies with him. She would have been perfectly happy cleaning her apartment, then taking a nice, long bubble bath and reading in bed before going to sleep early. Why should she just drop everything to entertain him? She'd go out there right now and tell him that she changed her mind and she'd really like the evening to herself. They would have to do the movie marathon another time. He'd understand. She'd send him away with a plate of homemade cookies and the promise of a rain check. After all, one little chaste kiss didn't mean anything. It didn't mean their relationship was changing at all. And it certainly had nothing to do with the tornado going on in her stomach, or why she had unbuttoned and then rebuttoned the top of her sweater three times, indecisively.

She smiled and settled on just two undone buttons before opening the bedroom door to rejoin him.

*************************************************************************************

They sat on the sofa together with plates balanced on their laps. Adam Sandler crooned away on the TV wearing a baby blue tuxedo and Mulder licked neon orange cheese from the back of a spoon.

"I can't believe you'd rather eat that," he nodded, wrinkling his nose at her plate of Lean Cuisine.

"Ditto," she replied, forking chicken and broccoli into her mouth without taking her eyes off the TV.

"Come on, just one bite." He held out a spoonful to her and she eyed it suspiciously before sinking her mouth over it.

She chewed thoughtfully. "It's so salty and...processed."

"I know, isn't it great?" He smiled. "It's like Twinkies. You could put them in the trunk of your car for a year and they'd be exactly the same. It's a culinary miracle, Scully."

"There is nothing culinary about that, Mulder. The color of that cheese just does not exist in the natural world." She paused, then, "Gimme another bite." And he did, feeding her from his spoon and it wasn't even a little bit weird.

"So where'd you get the movies? I know they're not part of your usual collection." She set her plate of mostly finished dinner on the coffee table and pulled her legs up to curl under her.

"Marty and Joe. Although I had to interrupt a very interesting New Year's party to get them. Somebody named Cinnamon Toast answered the door. Gender inconclusive."

Scully smiled. Marty and Joe were Mulder's gay neighbors. They were on very friendly terms with him and Mulder even had a standing invitation for Sunday morning breakfast. Joe was a chef in a prestigious restaurant and enjoyed putting on a lavish spread for Sunday breakfast. When Mulder's waterbed had sprung a leak awhile back, he had even crashed on Marty and Joe's couch for a night while his carpet dried out. The next day, Mulder had worn a new tie to work and when Scully complimented him on it, he had replied matter-of-factly, "It's Marty's. The color is eggplant. Marty and Joe think I should wear more jewel tones."

"Two out of three of the movies have Meg Ryan in them. Do you have a secret crush I should know about?" she teased.

Scully got up to carry her plate to the kitchen, but as she was walking away she could've sworn she heard him mutter "Not on Meg Ryan" under his breath.

The credits were rolling when she walked back into the living room. "So what did you think of The Wedding Singer, Scully?"

She shrugged. "It was entertaining. A little juvenile maybe, but the music was good."

Mulder snorted. "Coming from someone whose entire CD collection is classical music."

Scully's eyebrows lifted and she cocked her head to the side to look at him. "What are you talking about?"

He got up and crossed to the bookshelf where her stereo sat and gestured to an entire row of CDs with a sweep of his hand. "Vivaldi, Mozart, Bach, Wagner, Brahms, Handel, Chopin, Stravinsky...should I go on?"

"Open up the doors on the bottom shelf, Mulder."

"What?"

"There are doors that slide open on the bottom shelf. Open them." She crossed her arms in front of her chest and smiled.

He fingered the wood on the bottom of the bookshelf and looked surprised to find that there were indeed doors that slid to the side, revealing an entire new row of CDs, numbering at least fifty.

"Scully. You've been holding out on me." He smoothed one finger over the plastic edges of the CDs reading the titles. "Holy...look at all this cool stuff. Bowie, The Stones, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Aerosmith, The Talking Heads, Foo Fighters, Bare Naked Ladies, Sarah MacLachlan, Nirvana, Goo Goo Dolls ..."

"It surprises you that I have music, Mulder?"

"That you have this music."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

But he had already moved on to more CDs, pulling a stack out and pawing through them. He turned to her with an utterly amused expression. "Bon Jovi, Scully?"

"Really?" She looked slightly confused. "I don't know where that came from."

"Sure. You also have two Prince CDs, a Madonna one, and Michael Jackson's Thriller-"

"Everybody had Thriller, Mulder."

"Had, Scully. You still have it. You also have the soundtrack to The Rocky Horror Picture Show." He flashed her a grin the size of Texas. "Scully, every time I think I've got your number, you go and do something like this."

"Like what? They're just CDs. Most of which have been there the entire time you've known me. I'm still the same person."

His grin widened even further, if that was possible. "Oh, but you're not. You're like this onion with all these layers. And now I can't help but picture you doing The Time Warp."

She tossed a pillow from the sofa at him. "Shut up and put in another movie, Mulder."

*************************************************************************************

His leg felt hot against hers. There had been space between them on the couch and now there wasn't. When had that happened? Maybe after she had gotten up to brew some tea and he had called out, "Bring the cookies" to her while she was in the kitchen. He had been stoking the fire when she got back and she noticed that he had turned off the lamp so the only light was the flicker of the TV and the glow from the fireplace.

And now all she could focus on was the fact that her thigh was on fire from his. My God, he gave off a lot of heat.  He was always hot, wore T shirts in the dead of winter. She froze whenever she went to his apartment.

"Can you peel an apple in one long piece?" he asked, bringing her mind back.

"What?"

"Tom Hanks' character was just saying that his wife used to peel an apple in one long piece. Can you do that?" He continued looking at the screen, but she turned to watch his face instead.

"Yes," she answered, simply.

He nodded once, satisfied.

Her bare feet were resting on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. His were still on the floor. She wished he'd put them up too. She wanted to see how far down his leg her feet reached when they were sitting like this. Was their height difference mostly from the waist up or the waist down? She suspected from the waist down. So it would stand to reason, then, that if they were both lying down, it would be less noticeable. But it was completely unnecessary to ponder such things, and even a little bit dangerous.

His good arm, the one that hadn't been mauled by zombies twenty-four hours ago, stretched behind her to drape across the back of the sofa. It was an innocuous gesture and yet, for half a minute, she didn't breathe. When she finally did, she smelled him. Not a bad smell or anything. Just spicy and woodsy, and masculine. His antiperspirant, probably.

She simply could not concentrate on the movie. It was a good thing she had seen it before so if he tried to converse with her on it, she could summon a reasonable response without having to give away the fact that she had been spacing out through the entire thing.

A decent-sized yawn gripped her and she placed her hand over her mouth.

"Are you tired? Do you want to me to take off so you can go to bed?" he asked, quietly.

"No, it's fine. I'm just relaxed, that's all."

"You can lie down, if you want to. I'll move over." He tensed as if to change positions.

"No! Really, it's okay." She placed a hand firmly on his thigh.

His eyes dropped to her hand and stayed there. He blinked slowly. She also stared down, as if her hand were a detached appendage with a mind all its own. If she pulled it away, it would be even more awkward, so she left it there and dragged her eyes  back to the TV screen where Meg Ryan was in a closet, talking to Rosie O'Donnell on the phone.

Innumerable moments passed. The fire crackled and spit. Tom Hanks' on-screen kid was saying something mildly humorous and Mulder let out a quiet snort and the hand that he had draped across the back of her couch flopped forward to graze her shoulder. It was absolutely nothing and yet something at the same time. Casual and innocent. She's sure he had done it, probably countless times before, and it had never even registered with her.

Don't think about it. Pay attention to the movie and not where his arm is or where your hand is. It's just Mulder sitting on your couch with you, like he's done plenty of times. She breathed deeply and relaxed, redirecting her thoughts toward the movie for the umpteenth time since it started.    

"It's just so unrealistic, you know?" She said, sighing.

"What is?"

"That this woman would fly all the way across the country, would change her life, for this man she doesn't even know."

"You don't believe that fate can bring two people together, Scully?"

She waited a beat before answering. "I- I don't really know." She was suddenly hyper aware again of his proximity to her. "I suppose it's possible. What do you think?"

"I think love is messy." And she felt his large hand cover hers.

*************************************************************************************

The next thing she knew, something warm was tickling her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open slowly and focused on his face looking down on hers, smiling. His thumb was caressing her cheek gently. She was absolutely certain for a moment that she was dreaming.  

She took a deep breath and sat up. "I fell asleep."

He nodded, an amused look on his face. "I'm used to it."

The TV screen was black and the fire had died down to glowing embers. She yawned and shivered, crossing her arms to rub her own shoulders. "What time is it?"

"Late. I'll get out of here so you can go to bed."

"Okay." Neither of them made a move to stand.

"Thanks for letting me crash your quiet New Year's."

She huffed out a tiny laugh, her sleepy eyelids opening and closing lazily. "You rescued me from my cleaning binge. I might have scoured my oven next if you hadn't stopped by."

"Yes, I've been known for distracting people from getting work done. It's a gift really." He stood and offered his hand to her. She took it and he helped her up.

"Would you like some cookies to take with you?" she offered.

He nodded emphatically and followed her to the kitchen where she dumped half a dozen cookies into a Ziplok bag and then walked him back to the door. He held up the baggie and shook it gently. "Breakfast."

She wrinkled her nose.

"What? They're oatmeal."

"I'm afraid to ask what you usually eat for breakfast."

He smiled. "Um. Sometimes I make a pass by Accounting on my way to the basement. Someone there usually brings in doughnuts."

"You should eat a balanced breakfast, Mulder. It's the most important meal of the day."

"Thanks, Doc. Are you going to make breakfast for me sometime?"

Her eyes widened and darted to the floor where her toes gripped the hardwoods.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I didn't mean...um, I wasn't ..." He sighed. "I'm going to go now. It's late and you're tired and it's been a really nice evening. Thanks, Scully."

She looked up at him, her cheeks slightly pink. "Goodnight, Mulder."

He bent down and leaned forward and since she was a complete idiot and had no idea what he was doing, she leaned to the side to turn the deadbolt on the door at the same moment that his face made contact with hers. The sides of their noses bumped and she gasped, then he caught the very edge of her mouth with his and kissed her. If you want to call it that. The both retreated simultaneously and the whole scenario was every bit as awkward as a prepubescent first kiss. And she had thought last night's kiss had needed a little work. God. Was it possible to forget how to do this? She just might have.

He hardly looked at her again, mumbled another quick goodnight and stumbled out the door. It clicked closed and she leaned her forehead against it, with an audible 'clunk.' That was two kisses in two days and she hadn't been expecting either one of them. Perhaps if she had advance warning, she might be able to get with the program. Maybe he could draft her a memo ahead of time.

It was late, she was tired, and she couldn't be held responsible for mediocre romance when she was only half awake. She sighed heavily and slid her head up from the door slowly to turn and shuffle toward her bedroom, but she hadn't gotten more than five paces away when a quiet knock sounded.

What now? Then she spotted the Ziplok baggie of cookies still sitting on the small table by the door and shook her head, smiling. He was like a school child who had forgotten his lunch. Sometimes the little boy in him was every bit as present as the man.  

She retrieved it and opened her door to him once more.

He stood there, hands clasped in front of him and wearing a shy and tentative smile. "Um. That sucked. Can I try again?"

She could have asked what he meant, but she didn't need to. He was asking permission and it was about the most endearing and contrite thing she'd ever heard from him. Her nod was slight and she moistened her lips in that nervous way she always did when she felt disarmed by him.  

His finger gently lifted her chin and he leaned to brush his lips against hers. Her eyes fluttered closed and she pressed in, tilting her head to find the perfect angle. His mouth moved over hers, opening just a tiny bit, just enough to hint at more, to suggest possibilities. It was a slow-dance-at-the-prom, perfect sunset, front porch swing kind of kiss. And when they finally parted, she had to steady herself with one hand on the door frame while her breathing evened out.

He took the bag of cookies still dangling from her grasp and smiled. "Goodnight, Scully. Sleep tight."

"Goodnight, Mulder," she replied, her voice airy.

He was all the way to the elevator when she finally went back inside and turned the lock. If the first day of the year held this much promise, how could the next three hundred and sixty-four possibly compare? 


	2. Chapter 2

Mid-January, 2000

 

Mulder's fingers drummed mindlessly on the steering wheel. It was Friday and she was tired and very tempted to reach out and still his hands because it had stopped being distracting about ten miles ago and was now teetering on excruciating. As if that wasn't enough, he couldn't seem to leave the seek button on the car stereo alone. Usually it was sports radio or NPR, or sometimes a little classic rock. She wasn't prone to complaining because she mostly didn't care and was able to tune out just about anything and fall asleep.

But this time he had settled on something modern and downright juvenile that was a curious crossbreed between techno dance and just plain stupid. Now he was bobbing his head and still finger drumming and she couldn't help but regard him warily. He may have lost his mind for the third or fourth time, but she'd need more evidence for a firm diagnosis. He braked quickly, coming up to an intersection too fast and catching the light. She put one hand on the dashboard to brace herself and several things rolled out from under the passenger seat and bumped against her heels. Two empty plastic drink bottles and a crumpled up fast food bag. Mulder's car was a regular emporium of recyclables and food has-beens.

He had been acting weird since they ended the case earlier that day. Ever since their conversation in the hospital with the teenager, Tony Reed, who had been recovering from whatever it was that had given him superhuman speed. Something about what Mulder had asked her, about the possibility that they were too old for their bodies to respond to whatever mysterious force had been at work in that dank cave. Afterward, they had gone back to their basement office to complete the paperwork on the case and he had been barely dialed in the entire afternoon. It seemed like every time she stole a glance at him, he was slouched at his desk, tapping his fingertips on the desk blotter or wadding up paper and tossing it across the room toward the waste basket or flinging sharpened pencils into the ceiling tiles. At one point, when he returned from the vending machines with a Yoohoo and a straw, she had half expected him to start launching spit balls at her. So this was what too much contact with pubescent teenagers did to Mulder. Good to know.

Now he was driving her back to her apartment because they happened to have carpooled together that morning, something that seemed to be occurring with some frequency lately, for no discernible reason. The song on the radio transitioned to something even more painful and Mulder turned it up louder. Scully reached and turned it back down and he looked at her like she had just taken the last brownie.

"Scully, it's Friday night." As if that explained everything. "Do you know what people do on Friday nights?"

A wrinkle formed between her brows. Was this a trick question? And was he working his way up to some kind of suggestive innuendo because yes, she was aware of what some people did on Friday nights. She used to be one of those people long, long ago.

"People go out and have fun on Friday nights. Especially single, under forty (although barely, for one of us) people like ourselves. We don't ever do that. Why don't we do that?"

"Do what, exactly?" she asked, warily.

"I don't know, wander around this fine city of ours. Hit some clubs, listen to some live music, have a cocktail or several, dance."

"You want to dance, Mulder? Do you dance?" Her expression was doubtful, yet amused.

He waited a beat. "I think I used to."

They rode in companionable silence for several long minutes while they both contemplated their past lives and when they had become so dull.

"Do you want to go out, Scully?" he blurted.

By the time her head swiveled toward his he was studying the road again with a serious and pensive expression.

"Tonight?" Her voice sounded squeaky, even to herself.

"Sure, why not?"

Yes, why not, Dana? Maybe because you're tired and you just want to take a long bath and shave your legs, and because you haven't gone clubbing since Missy dragged you out to that place where there was furniture bolted to the ceiling and that guy who called himself Scram kept sending drinks to your table. She had no idea how long ago that was, but she was pretty sure the Macarena had been a new dance and she had done it after consuming too many Cosmopolitans.

"Unless you already have other plans..." he said, the smile collapsing on his face. Jesus, how could he really not know her well enough that he had to ask that? Yeah, the offers are piling up on my answering machine as we speak, Mulder.

He pulled the car up in front of her apartment building and threw it in park. She looked at her watch and gave a resigned sigh. "Um, okay, sure, all right. We'll go out," she said, not really sure she was sold on the idea, but vaguely aware that his current demeanor suggested he may need adult supervision tonight. "What time?"

He ran a hand through his hair and the smile returned to his face. "Uh, I hadn't thought that far ahead. Do you want to grab dinner first or-"

"I think I'd like to catch a nap and a bath first, so let's skip dinner and just go out later."

"I'll pick you up at nine then."

She nodded, unbuckling her seatbelt and throwing open the car door to the sidewalk. She rooted around in the side compartment of her purse for her keys.

"So where are we going, Mulder?"

"Not sure yet. Suffice it to say I'm a bit out of the loop. I'll have to make some phone calls."

"Can I make a request?"

He swept his right hand in a 'be my guest' gesture.

"Live music, please. And not Langly's band either."

His head bobbed and he reached to turn the music back up several notches until the bass reverberated and she was sure her neighbors must be pulling curtains back to see what all the ruckus was.   

"I'll see what I can do, Scully. Get some rest and I'll see you around nine."

And then Scully spent the next half hour trying on everything in her closet because, really, what does one wear on what may or may not be a date, with a man who may or may not be more than just a friend, and who she may or may not want to lick from head to toe?   

*************************************************************************************

By 8:50, Mulder had already cruised three laps around Scully's building and he had to pee. He was starting to reconsider this whole idea. What could possibly have possessed him? The only clubs he had frequented in the last few years had more in the way of a stage than a dance floor, and it wasn't the patrons doing the dancing. He was fairly sure that if he took her to one of those fine establishments, he'd be getting a goodnight fist instead of a goodnight kiss. It had taken some phone book searching and a call to Langly in order to narrow down the choices. Since Mulder didn't want to open a can of worms by mentioning that he was planning to go out with Scully, he had instead told Langly that he was working a case and needed to know where a guy might take a woman to listen to live music. When Langly had replied, "You mean like a classy chick, like Scully?" Mulder suspected his cover had been blown. But the end result was that he had a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket with a couple of addresses and some high hopes.

He parked in front of Scully's building and walked around the corner down a side alley to relieve himself. He was still early and didn't want to make a beeline for her bathroom the minute she opened the door. He was mid-stream when he started giving some concerted thought to why he was feeling the sudden urge to defy his age. Obviously, it had something to do with their last case. It had never bothered him until now. Getting older. Physically, he had never been in better shape. He was still able to knock off several miles before work most mornings and when he played basketball at the Y on Thursday nights, he could match skills with guys who were ten or fifteen years younger.

But he had recognized the looks those high school kids had given him when he had tried to relate to them. They had been the same looks he had once given his own father. And why not? Mulder was nearly old enough to have a kid in high school, had he started down that path in life much earlier. But he hadn't. He had chosen a different road and for some reason, the inkling that he may not have much to show for it was just now starting to scratch at his brain. It wasn't regret really. No, it was more of a fervent desire to capture something intangible or ephemeral that was gradually slipping through his fingers. He had wondered if perhaps Scully felt the same. After all, she had reacted with a pouty bottom lip when he suggested that perhaps they were too old to be affected by the same forces as those teens.

And so the remainder of their day, he had suffered a brief and very early mid-life crisis. He couldn't concentrate on work, could nearly feel the seconds of his life ticking away as he contemplated yet another Friday night keeping company with some lousy take-out and his porn collection, which had  ceased to be anything more than perfunctory several years ago. His waning interest in the tapes had coincided with Scully's sleek haircuts, darker makeup, and tighter fitting suits. Most of the time now, he didn't even bother with porn. The images of Scully that seemed to be running on a never-ending loop in his brain these days, God even the PG-13 ones, could get him off light years faster than anything in his VCR. If he ever got to experience the real thing, he wasn't certain he'd survive it.

He tucked himself back in and zipped, took a deep breath and made his way to her apartment door, overthinking his choice of apparel the whole way. Having no idea what people wore out these days and not wanting to look like he was trying too hard, he had chosen to stick with all black and wore his black jeans, solid turtleneck and leather jacket. He figured it left little room for error in terms of his color-blindness, and he could at least blend into the background if it turned out that he really didn't have any moves, which was probable because he was a white guy pushing forty. Scully had it easy. No guy in a bar or club ever judged a woman on her ability to dance. Nope, that was most definitely not what captured or lost their attention. Then again, guys were admittedly far more shallow in other ways and in that department, she had nothing to worry about.     

He knocked and looked at his watch. 9:07. This was early for him. She had probably been expecting him to be on 'Mulder time,' which was at least fifteen minutes late. He didn't hear any footsteps, so he knocked again. Then he heard her faintly call out, "Use your key, Mulder." He did.

The door to her bedroom cracked open and he heard her voice. "I'll be out in a minute. Make yourself at home."

She said that to him just about every time he was in her apartment and he always did. It typically involved rifling through her refrigerator or cupboards for something non-healthy to snack on, and then  flopping down on her couch with the TV remote until she chastised him for leaving his shoes on or eating on the furniture, like she was housebreaking a puppy. This time, he just stood there and waited.

And waited. Geez Scully. She was actually being a girl about this. He hadn't waited for a woman to get ready to go out since Dia- wait. Never mind.

He busied himself mentally cataloguing all the titles on her bookshelf. He already knew them all, but he looked to see if there was anything knew each time he came over. He heard her before he saw her – heels clicking on the hardwood floor behind him.

He spun to take her in. She was wearing dark jeans and he was immediately thankful he'd done the same. Her top was one he knew he'd definitely never seen her wear before. It was a midnight blue color with a three-quarter length sleeves and a dangerously scooped neckline. Her work blouses had gotten gradually snugger over the last couple of years, but this shirt set a whole new standard. It accentuated her toned abdomen and made her breasts look perfectly rounded and full, like ripe fruit. He realized why she never wore it. It simply wasn't fair to the other shirts in her closet. Mulder found himself unconsciously flexing his hands open and closed at his sides, as if they somehow knew they were in close proximity to something they should be holding.

Her cross glinted, showcased by an expanse of bare skin. He couldn't help but ponder the dichotomy of that particular symbol, juxtaposed against all the sinful thoughts she would no doubt be germinating in the minds of an unsuspecting male population, himself included.

She cleared her throat and smoothed her hair behind her ears nervously. "What's the matter? You're staring. I thought maybe I should've worn the white button-down. I can just go and-"

"No, no." He reached for her wrist and halted her from spinning back toward her bedroom. "You look...um," he swallowed.

She searched his face then and seemed to catch on to his reaction because she smiled and color flooded her cheeks.

He shook his head a little and smiled back, recovering. "Don't change. I like this."

She grabbed a small black purse that matched her boots, and her leather jacket and preceded him out the door, his hand resting at the small of her back and his eyes about ten inches below that.

*************************************************************************************

Mulder made his way back to their table, a glass of red wine in one hand and a beer in the other. He slid in across from Scully and handed her the wine. An empty glass and another drained bottle already littered the surface of the table. She smiled and thanked him, although he couldn't actually hear the words above the roar of the music and the crowd.

Scully took two swallows of her wine close together and he tried to recall how much he'd ever really seen her drink before. One time they had split a six pack in a hotel room over expense reports and cheeseburgers and she'd been buzzed, even though she told him she wasn't. He knew when she had stood up from the bed and had to steady herself with a hand on the wall before walking to the bathroom. Beyond that, there had been miscellaneous glasses of wine and a beer on occasion, never more than a couple. He glanced at his watch. It was only 10:20 and she was on her second glass of merlot. This could get interesting.

Her lips were moving and she was gesticulating with her hand, but he had no idea what she was saying. He held up one finger to pause her and then got up and slid into the booth with her. She moved to accommodate him.

"Say what?" he asked, leaning in toward her.

She took another sip of wine. "I was just saying that these guys are pretty good, actually. How'd you hear about them?"

He shrugged coyly. "I asked around."

"Langly?"

He nodded, sheepishly.

She leaned in to his ear and her lips grazed the spot beneath his lobe, sending a tiny shiver up his spine, despite the fact that the air in the club was stale and warm. "I'm glad I came. I'm having a good time."

He nodded and smiled. She did look like she was having a good time. "How many of those before you're dancing on tables?" he laughed, pointing toward her wine glass.

Both brows went to her hairline and she tilted her head, disapprovingly. "They don't have enough wine here for that to happen."

"Maybe just the dance floor then."

She smiled and took another sip. "We'll see. I might be getting there."

Several songs went by and the conversation went down as easy as the alcohol. He made a third trip to the bar while she went to the restroom. The place was packed and there were plenty of people dancing. The line at the bar was long and he noticed that the women standing there were getting waited on much quicker by the male bartenders than the men were. No surprise there. Maybe it made sense to have Scully get the next round. After waiting for about ten minutes to get served, he felt two arms wrap around his waist from behind and his head swiveled back to find her pressed against him. He grasped both her arms in his and she made no move to pull away. They waited for several more minutes before he bent toward her ear.

"C'mere and stand in front of me."

She looked at him, curiously, but moved in front of him, allowing his hands to rest gently on her shoulders. He noticed that she leaned back into him, swaying to the music.

Not more than two minutes later, he heard one of the male bartenders call out to her, "What can I get ya, Hon?" Mulder rolled his eyes as Scully ordered.

*************************************************************************************

Three glasses of wine. Three was the magic number. She was on her feet with her hand outstretched as she drained the last swallow. "Come on, I love this song."

He placed his palm in hers and allowed her to guide him through a sea of sweaty, gyrating people to a pocket on the far edge of the dance floor. She fell into an easy rhythm and he tried to follow suit, standing close to her and mirroring her movements in counterpoint. She was actually pretty good and he had to admit to being surprised, although he'd never tell her that. He'd slow danced with her before, so he knew she was a natural at that, but this was an entirely new species.

Her face was flushed from the heat and the alcohol, and her hips had taken on a life of their own, swiveling dizzily to the beat. She looked good. Really, really good. He was trying to hold his own, but he was pretty sure his moves had "white guy trying to get laid" written all over them.

Her lips moved as she sang along to a pretty decent rendition of Santana's 'Smooth.' He couldn't hear her above the noise. It was loud and his entire insides reverberated to the beat. His chest thumped and he felt the music moving through him like some kind of electrical current.    

He leaned forward and she met him halfway, grasping his elbow in her palm. "This was my first concert," he said. 

"Santana?"  

He nodded. "I was seventeen and I learned the true meaning of the term 'contact high.' You could've cut the haze with a knife."

She laughed.

"What was yours?" he asked, but she shook her head at him and kept dancing.

"Come on, Scully. Tell me."

"No way. Too embarrassing," she yelled into his ear in a series of hot breaths that he felt like he could taste.

"My second concert was Rick Springfield. It can't be worse than that."

She grimaced.

"Worse than Rick Springfield?"

"Air Supply," she admitted and he laughed with her.

"Why did you go to Rick Springfield?"

"A girl," he said, and she nodded, sympathetically.

They danced through another fast song before the music slowed and the entire atmosphere shifted along with the people. New dancers slid in next to them, mostly couples who molded into one another like puzzle pieces. Mulder stood awkwardly for a few seconds, allowing Scully to make the decision. She closed the distance and draped two slight arms around his neck. Even with the heels on her boots, her head still only reached the top of his shoulders. He circled her tiny waist and led her in a slow and lazy sway.

She was molten hot against him, her head turned to the side and resting. He could smell her shampoo and was acutely aware of a fingernail gently tracing tiny shapes on the back of his neck, right below his hairline. Christ, did she know she was doing that? He felt himself getting hard and shifted his feet to try and put enough space between them so she might not feel it. He had succeeded for just a brief moment before she breathed in, then out, and closed the distance once again, this time pressing her breasts firmly to him. He bit his lower lip enough to make himself wince, but it did no good whatsoever. He was officially pitching a tent in his jeans.

He saw her eyes flutter open in recognition and felt her muscles tighten slightly. She picked her head up from his chest and pulled back a few inches. Her breath caught a little and her exhale ended in a tiny shudder and a nervous swallow.

Since they were probably long past ignoring it, he cupped the back of her hair affectionately and gave honesty a try.  "I'm sorry, Scully," he said. "This is really embarrassing. Should we go and sit down for awhile?"

She stretched to his ear again, causing her breasts to press into him and he considered telling her that it might not be the best remedy. "Can I tell you a secret?"

He nodded once, curiously.

"I've encountered one of those before," she said, and the edges of her mouth curved gently upward into a teasing half-smile.

He lost it completely and laughed out loud at her brazenness. "I have no doubt. And how did you, um, handle it, might I ask?"

She feigned a serious look. "Very, very carefully."

Oh man, he simply couldn't resist. "I'd like to see that sometime," he said, as her mouth dropped open and her head tilted, skillfully avoiding his gaze.

He was still clutching her to him when the song ended and another took its place. Bodies separated on the dance floor and some left, while others simply adapted to a faster tempo. They did neither, seemingly caught in a moment that had both passed and hadn't quite begun.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked, his pupils locked on hers and his question layered with meaning.

She only hesitated a beat before nodding and allowing him to lead her off the dance floor and through the crowd into the bitter night air.

*************************************************************************************

Not much was said during the short trip to Georgetown. He wasn't sure if he would've heard, even if it was. His ears rang with a muffled silence, a sharp contrast to where they'd just been for the last three hours.

She picked up a piece of paper from the console of his car and studied it, reading the address in segments each time they passed under a street light. It was the list of places he'd gotten from Langly, who had, surprisingly, hit the nail on the head with the first band. He'd have to remember to thank him with an appropriate offering of alcohol the next time he saw him.

He parked the car in front of her building, but didn't cut the engine. She unbuckled, so he did the same. It was clearly one of those 'now what' moments he hadn't experienced in years and still hadn't gained any insight into how to navigate wisely. The Scully variable made it even more unpredictable. She was harder to decipher than James Joyce and Faulkner combined.

He realized he would've done just about anything at that point. He didn't want the night to end, but it was almost entirely her choice. Her profile in the glint of the street lamps defined the evening for him. He might be able to get by on just that, even if she got out of his car and walked away right now. He was desperately in love with her. This was not news to him, although the admission of it still incited an edge of fear in him. He hadn't been this vulnerable to a woman in, well maybe forever.

She cut through the awkward by claiming his hand with her own and weaving her fingers into his, offering him a soft smile. And without further warning, his upper body dove across the gear shift to capture her mouth with his. Her eyes flew open for one instant before drifting closed and he felt her entire body sink into the kiss. It was a little firmer, a little more frantic than anything they had attempted previously, but it seemed to fit the mood of the evening and so with three beers under his belt, he gave himself up for lost. His lips parted just enough and he was going to wait for her to initiate something more invasive, but then a breathy little moan escaped her and his self-control took a hike. His tongue was in her mouth and his hand in her hair. Compared to their last two and a half kisses, this was anarchy.

Parting for air, their foreheads met and fused together. Her chest heaved and her breasts drew his eyes like magnets. They looked like perfect oranges, which he always knew were just the right size. They got lost under her suits sometimes, but this shirt was utterly redemptive. It had the power to make every heterosexual guy at the Bureau, and maybe even some of the women, weep. He might do the same if he didn't touch them soon.

She huffed out a tiny laugh and he followed her line of sight down to where his cock formed a noticeable ridge inside his jeans. "Twice," she said, lifting one brow.

More like thousands, he thought to himself. He closed his eyes and cupped her face in both of his hands. "Consider this a blanket apology for the presumptive nature of all of them – past, present, and future," he whispered.  

That must have been the right thing to say because she nipped at the corners of his mouth again, teasingly, until he sank his tongue back into her and, what the hell, his hand edged up to thumb over the center of her breast repeatedly until he felt a distinct rising. They made out, hot and heavy, in a web of tongues and hands and little patches of hot skin that were suddenly erotic for no reason other than that they belonged to her. The inside of an elbow, a smooth wrist, the small of her back, that little spot above her upper lip – all made him want to break out into song. His head swam and he dragged his open mouth across her jaw, panting into her ear.

"Can I come up?"

She took a deep breath and tensed slightly. "Mulder." Her tiny soft hand covered his, which was now pawing desperately at her breast, and she held him still, the way one might hold a frantic puppy during a thunderstorm.

He pulled back and ran a hand through his hair, breathing harshly, his back against his own seat now. "I didn't mean to push. I thought...I guess I just-"

"It's not your fault, Mulder. I'm ...a little confused."

He nodded, staring straight ahead out the windshield at nothing but dark.

"What is this we're doing?" Her voice was quiet, reserved and tentative. He had known this conversation was coming. He had just hoped it might hold off until he had some thoughtful answers to offer her.

"I don't know," he said, realizing how inadequate his response was before it was even out of his mouth.

"I mean, what is this?" she gestured back and forth between them with one hand.

"What do you want it to be?"

"Don't play games with me, Mulder."

"I'm not. I have no intentions of playing games with you, Scully. I just don't know what to say. I wish I did."

Moments passed in silence until she reached again for his hand, clasping it in hers and holding it against his knee. "What's between us now means everything to me, Mulder. I'm not sure I want it to change."

"I'm not sure we have a choice, Scully. Or at least, given the way I've been feeling lately when we're together, I'm not sure I do."

His admission clearly startled her and her head turned briskly to look at him. He continued staring ahead, unable to meet her eyes and see what was there, or worse, what might not be.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

He sighed deeply and squeezed her hand. "Take it day by day, I suppose. And wait for the haze to clear. We've been in weirder places than this, Scully."

She arched her eyebrows and smiled, offering him a doubtful look. He chuckled and pulled her closer, pressing his mouth to her forehead, thankful that even when nothing made any sense, the bond they had was stronger than everything else and would fight its way to the surface of any mess.

Despite their best efforts, even they couldn't fuck up this perfect thing between them. It was bigger than their combined lunacy.

He regained his composure and planted a kiss on the back of her hand. "Let me walk you to your door?"

She nodded and smiled gently. "Okay."

So he walked her up and she never took her hand out of his, even when she had to fish through her purse with one hand to unearth her keys. He kissed her goodnight outside her apartment and it was the kind of kiss he might've gotten away with on his date's front porch in high school with parents waiting inside. It was sweet and gentlemanly and it settled his soul like a warm drink on a cold night. Wherever this thing took them, they'd be all right.


	3. Chapter 3

Late January, 2000

 

She stood on the threshold of his apartment, half in and half out, like she had literally stalled or run out of gas. He placed her overnight bag in his bedroom and had to come back out for her, pulling her in by hand, gently, and locking the door behind her. She shuffled in childlike obedience, but her glassy, lifeless eyes were the opposite of innocence. He couldn't know exactly what they had seen in the last few hours, but he was afraid if he looked too closely, he'd see the images reflected in her pupils, like a horror movie. She hadn't said more than five words since they left her apartment. She still wore the grey flannel pajamas under her wool overcoat and his stomach lurched at a smear of blood on the cuff of one sleeve.

"Do you want to take a shower and change?" he offered.

A wrinkle formed between her brows and she nodded, vacantly. "It's too warm in here. Can you open a window?"

"Sure," he said, and crossed the room to crack open the one above his desk. He glanced at the thermostat. 67 degrees. She typically complained and was wrapping a blanket around her at anything below 72. Frigid winter air blew through the window and swept a pile of papers off his desk and onto the floor. The due date on his phone bill stared up at him in bold print next to his shoe.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she said, like this was an entirely new idea and he nodded, easing her coat from her hunched shoulders.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I'm not hungry."

"That wasn't what I asked."

She shrugged. "I think I had yogurt and an orange for lunch."

"That was breakfast."

"Okay."

"I'll heat up some soup. There are clean towels in the bathroom."

His bathroom door clicked shut and he emptied two cans of chicken and vegetable soup into a sauce pan and turned on a burner. His phone rang and he cradled it between his ear and shoulder so he could stir.

"Yeah. Mulder."

"How is she?" Skinner.

"Uh, the jury's still out on that one. She's in the shower."

"She staying with you tonight or her mother?"

"Here. Her mother's out of town."

"I've got you both on two days mandatory paid leave. And don't let her go back to her apartment tomorrow. The place is a fucking disaster. I've got crime scene decon coming in to clean up. If she needs anything, you get it for her."

"Okay. Thank you, Sir."

"And Agent Mulder – this may not be open and shut. I suspect you realize that."

"It was self-defense. I already gave my statement. I have nothing more to add."

"Uh-huh." An exhausted sigh. "Look, I know and you know she did what she had to do – did the human race a goddamn favor, in my opinion. I'll do what I can on my end to tie this up, but I can't promise this won't rear its ugly head when you get back into the office. Not to mention the press. There's a news van parked outside Scully's apartment now. It won't take them long to figure out she's not here and where do you think the next logical place is they'll look?"

"How do you want me to handle it?"

"Don't let her make a statement. Not one word. Refer any questions to me. This kind of thing usually dies down within a day or two."

"And Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"She'll be all right. If she needs anything, call me, day or night."

"I will. Thank you again, Sir."

Mulder hung up the phone and turned off the stove. He walked toward his bedroom, listening for signs of progress. The water was still running in the shower and he could hear her sobbing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard her cry, and maybe never like this. The idea that someone or something could fracture her like this gripped him with fury. It's a good thing she had already taken the monster's life or he would have. Mulder stood, frozen to the spot, for at least a minute as his heart threatened to implode.

He knocked once. She didn't say anything, but the sobbing ceased abruptly, so he knew she'd heard it. He cracked the bathroom door an inch and soupy, humid air accosted him. "Scully, it's me." Not a brilliant lead-in, perhaps.

"Mulder, don't...don't  come in... here." Her voice was broken and raw and breathy sobs punctuated her words.  The pajamas she had been wearing lay shed on the floor by the toilet, her underwear in a curl on top.

He clicked the door closed again and went to her bag at the foot of his bed. He pulled out her neatly folded blue silk pajamas and a pair of cotton panties and went and opened the bathroom door again. The sobs were still there, but muffled. She was trying to hide them.

"I'm coming in, Scully."

This time no argument, just more wracked breathing and a whimper. He laid the clean clothes on top of the closed toilet lid and picked up the dirty ones off the floor. When he did, he saw they were torn at the seams in several places. They hadn't been when she arrived. She had ripped them apart herself. He carried the bundle out, pausing to deposit her underwear in his laundry hamper, then went to the kitchen and double-bagged the offending garments and stuffed them at the bottom of his trash can.

When he got back to the bathroom, the water had stopped, but she was still inside the shower. The crying had ebbed to staccato breaths and sniffling. "I'm opening the curtain now, Scully." He waited five seconds and there was no response, so he did.

She stood there facing him, all pink skinned and slight, both arms crossed in an X over the front of her, still modest even in her misery. Her eyes were fixed and expressionless, resting somewhere around his knee caps. He held an open towel out wide to her like a curtain, averting his eyes, but she made no move to get out, so he wrapped and carried her to his bed, stripped the blankets back and deposited her like a wounded moth on a leaf. She immediately went fetal. He kicked off his shoes and folded himself behind her in a full embrace, pushing wet hair back from her ear and making soothing sounds until the shuddering stopped.

The soup went cold on the kitchen stove.

*************************************************************************************

The first time she woke up, she managed to keep her towel mostly in place as she bolted for the bathroom, throwing the lid open on the toilet to scatter her unworn pajamas like a waterfall onto the tiles while she dry heaved.

He gave her a minute, then followed her in, still wearing all his clothes, even socks. She was rinsing her mouth with handfuls of water from the faucet. "I forgot my toothbrush," she said, so he gave her a new green one in its original packaging. It had been in his bathroom cabinet for over a year now, purchased specifically for her on the off-chance that she might someday spend the night in his apartment and need one. He had imagined it under better circumstances. More ecstasy and unbridled passion, less splattering of blood and brain matter. Maybe equal amounts of nudity, he noted as her towel slipped and she caught and retucked it in between her bare breasts.

She brushed her teeth and went back to bed still wearing the towel. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had developed a new-found aversion to all pajamas, not just the ones she destroyed. He refolded the blue ones on top of his dresser in case she changed her mind, then swapped his day clothes for a pair of sweatpants and a T shirt, and got back into his bed with her. His plan had been to take the couch and put her in his bed, but it was 2:00 a.m. and neither of them seemed to care and he couldn't imagine being that far away from her right now.  If he could pierce her skin and suck the pain out of her like snake venom, he would.

*************************************************************************************

The next time he opened his eyes, it was in response to uncanny warmth on his stomach and something wet by his ear. He was flat on his back, both arms crossed at his chest like a dead man, and maybe he was because what was happening just wouldn't happen in any universe he was currently a part of. A third hand, not his own, was pressed to the bare skin of his abdomen, up underneath his shirt.

"I feel different," she said, nuzzling and licking his neck.

Clearly.

"Scully?"

"Mmmm..."

"What's going on?" His voice cracked like an adolescent.

"You smell good," she purred. "I think I need...something..."

Oh God. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. All wrong. The opposite of right.

He was dreaming. That must be it. Any minute now, his alarm would go off, and she would no longer be in his bed. Disappointing, but it did happen to him once in awhile. He closed his eyes for a count of ten and then reopened them. He was still in bed, staring up at the cobwebs in the corner of his ceiling and the smoke detector hanging open with its missing battery. Oops. Change your clocks, change your batteries. When had he changed the clocks? Fall sometime. That was quite irresponsible of him. He could've died in an apartment fire, all because he forgot to change the batteries in his smoke detector. It seemed ridiculous, given all the bizarre ways he had actually come close to kicking the bucket. Smoke inhalation in his own bed seemed so mundane, anticlimactic really.

Where was he? Oh yeah, Scully. Poor emotionally traumatized Scully who had wasted a serial killer at point blank range not twelve hours ago and was now treating his neck like it was the best ice cream cone she'd ever encountered. This was not her. And she would never forgive herself or him if he did what he wanted more than anything to do right now.

Karma sucked the big fat hairy one. How many times had he fantasized about having her in his bed? And here she was, wearing only a towel, with her fingernails scraping about an inch above the waistband of his sweatpants.  Why the fuck did he have to be a nice guy?

He retrieved her wayward hand and pulled it up to the side of his cheek, kissing her palm. "Scully, not like this."

She whimpered and burrowed into the pillow they shared. He rolled to face her and matched her crescent moon posture, yin to her yang, his lips pecking at her tear-streaked cheekbones. Her nose was red and sniffly and he let her wipe it on his shirt without caring in the least. She was the most beautiful crier he'd ever seen. He cocooned her in the comforter because one quick glance told him that her towel was no longer doing its job and he was too close to seeing things he wasn't supposed to yet. He could wait and it would be worth it.

*************************************************************************************

He held her hostage inside his apartment for the next two days, but she didn't seem to mind or even notice for that matter. She shuffled between his bed and the couch on autopilot in her blue pajamas, which she had finally decided to put on, and a pair of his gym socks. They hung off the ends of her feet like floppy bunny ears.

There was nothing to eat in his apartment. He called out for pizza the first day, not wanting to leave her alone for any stretch of time.  All he'd seen her eat until that point was some peanut butter and grape jelly out of jars with a spoon. She'd dip for a slab of peanut butter, then for some jelly before spooning the mixture into her mouth while watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and I Love Lucy. When she was done, there were globs of jelly in his peanut butter jar and vice versa. It kind of grossed him out.

She slept for hours in his bed during the middle of the day. He'd stand at the threshold of the room and watch her sleep. Nightmares weren't just for the nighttime. Sometimes she made mewling sounds like a strangled kitten and he'd go and sit at the edge of the bed and brush her hair back with his fingers until she settled again.

Skinner called twice the first day to see how she was. He lied and said she was fine. On the second morning, he called to say her apartment was clean and she could go back home whenever she wanted to. Mulder watched her fork bird-sized bits of scrambled egg into her mouth from under a mountain of blankets at the corner of his couch. Her hair needed to be washed. Tom chased Jerry on his TV and got cold-cocked by a frying pan and she watched, enraptured.

At about seven o'clock that evening, she went into his bathroom and took a shower. When she came out, she was dressed in jeans and a sweater and her hair was blown dry. She carried her bag to the front door and told him she was ready to go home. He stood there with his mouth slack for a few minutes before loading her into his car and chauffering her back to Georgetown where, life as they knew it, went on.

He found her inhumanly small underwear mixed in with his whites when he went to do his laundry the next week. He washed and folded them neatly and placed them in a brown paper bag on top of her desk at work.


	4. Chapter 4

Early February, 2000

 

"Cats or dogs?" he asked, biting at his cuticles while steering with his other hand.

"Dogs. Cats are narcissistic and pouty."

"Your turn."

"Um, chocolate or vanilla?" she sighed.

"Chocolate," he confirmed, without missing a beat. "The Stones or The Beatles?"

"Both."

"Nope, you have to pick."

"Who says?"

"Everyone. It's the rules."

"Fine. The Beatles then. Mulder, how much farther and what is this place called again?"

"Blessing, Tennessee. Home of turkey-flavored Jello. There's a map in the glove box."

Scully grimaced. "Turkey-flavored Jello?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "Apparently, it tastes just like chicken."

She popped open the glove box and rummaged beneath the rental car paperwork to find the map and unfolded it onto her lap. "You can't tell me that was the closest airport. We've been driving for two hours."

"It's out there, Scully. The place and the people, from the sound of it."  

Her manicured fingernail followed a line across the page. "Did we pass a place called Birden yet?"

Mulder smiled. "So you're saying we need to pass through Birden to get to Blessing? I think there might be a lesson in that."

"From the looks of this sadly outdated map, we're still about fifteen miles away, give or take."

"Then give me another one."

"Mulder, I'm tired. Can't I just rest my eyes and you can tell me when we get there?"

"Nope. You slept all the way on the plane. You'd said you'd play."

"Petulance doesn't become you, Mulder."

"Quiz me."

She rolled her eyes and exhaled, breathing out through puffed cheeks.

"Spiderman or Batman?"

"No brainer. Spiderman can climb the sides of buildings. All Batman has going for him is a cool car."

"And Robin as a sidekick."

Mulder snickered. "Yeah, if you wanna call that an asset."

Scully pressed her thumbs into her closed eyelids and tipped her head back against the seat. Maybe he wouldn't notice and she could catch just ten minutes. She hadn't slept well last night at all. New neighbors had moved in over the weekend, a young couple. She had met them in the hallway as they tried to stuff a mattress out the elevator door. Then she had been awakened three separate times during the night by the rhythmic thumping of something hard, presumably a headboard, on the other side of her bedroom wall. Three times. She might remember vaguely what that was like. Good God, wasn't moving usually tiring enough for most people? Didn't they have boxes to unpack or cupboards to disinfect or something? She had been tempted to pound back on the wall, but she didn't want to be *that* kind of neighbor. The subject of scornful pillow talk. "She's just jealous because she isn't getting any," they'd say.  So sad and so very true.

"Twizzlers or Tootsie Rolls?" His voice cut into her thoughts and she realized she wouldn't be getting any rest until she could lock him on the other side of her motel room door.

"Twizzlers. Sunrise or sunset?"

"Sunset. Warm or cold?"

She frowned at him. "What warm or cold?"

"Anything."

"I can't answer that. It depends."

"Use your imagination, Scully. Just answer with your first instinct. Warm or cold?"

"Warm. I guess. Um, Sweet or salty?"

"Salty. Long or short?" He wagged an eyebrow at her, but she wouldn't acknowledge it.

"Why does everything have to be sexual with you?"

He feigned a look of shocked indignation. "Speak for yourself, Scully. I could've been thinking of hair, books, vacations..."

"Yeah, but you're not. Okay, fine, short then. Very, very short – downright stubby, in fact."

He shook his head slowly. "That's too bad, Scully. That's really too bad."

Okay, if he wanted to play that way, she could keep up. "Wet or dry?"

He kept his eyes on the road, but she saw his Adam's apple bob once. "I think I'll go with...wet." And she took a deep breath.

It was his turn. His pause made her tense involuntarily. "Top or bottom?"

Her lips parted and she adjusted her posture in her seat. "Top...to start with," she answered, quietly, but confidently. This seemed to stall him for a minute. One of his eyebrows twitched and his head tilted to one side, contemplatively.

"Fast or slow?" she asked, licking her bottom lip and cracking her window open. Damn, was it getting stuffy in here?

"Both."

"You can't."

"Oh, but I beg to differ, Scully. I definitely can." His smile was positively wicked.

"Not in this game, you can't. Your rules, Mulder. Pick."

"Okay, slow then."

He would pick that, Mister I-Think-I'll-Wait-Seven-Years-To-Kiss-You.

"Fancy restaurant dinner or romantic picnic in the park?"

"Are you asking me out, Mulder?" She smiled wryly.

"Maybe. I'm on a fact-finding mission."

"Picnic in the park," she said, and he looked surprised.

"Ferris Wheel or rollercoaster?"

"Rollercoaster," he said. 

They passed a battered green road sign that read "Blessing, 5 miles" and Scully reached beneath her seat to locate her discarded shoes and then reapplied her lipstick in the overhead mirror.

"Atlantic or Pacific?" he asked.

"Pacific," she replied, without giving it much thought.

"What are you doing living here then, Scully?"

She just looked at him with her tube of lipstick twisted halfway up. 'You,' she thought. 'You dumb idiot, you.'

*************************************************************************************

"You're going to say I'm crazy, but I don't think he did it," Mulder said, eyeing the second half of her sandwich.

"You're crazy."  She swiped two of his french fries and dipped them in the blob of ketchup on his plate. This was something they did. Shared food without asking.

"I don't know, it's too obvious. Since when has the obvious choice been the right one? Have those Hitchcock marathons taught you nothing, Scully?"

"Mulder, those lab results prove that Jared Chirp knew he wasn't the father of Gracie's baby. It was only a matter of time before Jared would have discovered the truth about O'Connor's incestuous relationship with his daughter. That's motive right there."

"Only if O'Connor really is the father. What do we have to go on, except Reverend Mackey's statement? What if it's not O'Connor's kid? What if someone else is involved? Are you going to eat that?"

She pushed her plate toward him and he picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite.

"And I'm saying you're thinking too far outside the box, Mulder. All the facts are there and we're still hanging out in this one stoplight town eating crappy diner food and talking about snakes. I say we turn it over to the local authorities and catch the first flight back to civilization. We've done everything there is to do here."

He smiled. "We haven't eaten turkey-flavored Jello yet."

"I think I'll pass."

Mulder glanced at his watch. "One more day. It's already after 7:30. Let's check into a motel, question Gracie O'Connor again tomorrow, and if it still seems cut and dried, we'll get out of here. We can be back on your couch with two beers in plenty of time for the Knicks game at 8:00 tomorrow night."

She eyebrowed him, slurping the last of her diet soda through a straw. "Funny, I don't remember inviting you over, Mulder."

He flashed her that boyish grin that pretty much nullified all of her arguments and licked his fingers clean, one by maddening one. She had never wanted to be his finger so much in her life.

*************************************************************************************

It started with a knock, which she ignored. It often did. Then a crack in the adjoining door and a beam of light cutting across the carpet. "Are you asleep?"

She concentrated on keeping her breath slow and even. It was like when you were a kid and you just knew that if you lay perfectly still under the covers and count to twenty, the monsters might bypass you. She only made it to eleven this time. "Scully, are you sleeping?"

"Yes," she mumbled into her pillow.

The door opened further, letting in more light. She lifted her head and squinted at the clock radio. "Mulder, what?"

The mattress sank on the opposite side. "What're you doing sleeping, Scully. It's barely 10:30. My TV's doing that thing again." Earlier, they had been reviewing the case files in his room with CNN on in the background and the volume kept cutting out every few minutes.

"Did you hit the side of it again?"

"Yeah, it's not helping and Alien is on the Sci Fi channel. Sigourney Weaver, Scully."  Something crinkled loudly.

"What did you bring as an offering?"

 The mattress shifted and the lamp on the bedside table next to him came to life. "Sour Cream and Onion," he said, shaking a green and white bag with a hopeful smile.

She pushed herself up with her palms, plumped two pillows behind her back, and handed him the remote. The bag of chips rested between them as shared bounty. Their hands tangled as they reached in at the same time and whenever he found a curled chip, he'd give it to her because he knew they were her favorite. Normally she refused his junk food overtures, but once in awhile she'd indulge for no other reason than to share something illicit with him.

It was a little known fact that she hated to exercise. She was lucky; if she watched what she ate, she didn't really need to. Sometimes she'd come home from a week on the road with him, having been subjected to pizza and late-night Hershey bars and diner pie he'd made her split with him, and she'd have to suck it in when she zipped her pants. When that happened, she'd eat grapefruit for breakfast, salads for lunch and dinner, and get up early every morning to run until she had room to spare in her size 4's again. She kept a couple of pairs of size 6's in her closet from when she was heavier, just for these types of emergencies. She was just a little bit obsessed with her weight, always had been. When you're 5 foot 3 inches tall on a good day, every pound shows. Her thighs were always the first to go, then her ass. Why couldn't she ever pack on the extra weight in her chest? 

Mulder, spread-eagle on top of her motel bed, had stopped being weird long ago. Christ, it was a wonder they still bothered to knock on one another's room doors. Sometimes he even fell asleep in her room. Never under the covers, no never that, but rather sprawled across the slippery motel comforter, surrounded by grisly crime photos or junk food or both. The things they could look at while eating was disturbing. They were not normal.

Sometimes she'd wake just enough in the predawn hours to hear him slink from the bed and shuffle back to his own room, leaving behind crumbs and a warm spot where he had been. He never stayed the whole night. Oddly enough, even if he only left her room an hour before the alarm went off, it didn't qualify as 'sleeping over.' The unspoken rule was that it didn't matter where you fell asleep, only where you woke up. Some things were just too big to face the light of day.

She had never been good at sharing a bed. Even when she had been in long-term relationships, she had always enjoyed the romantic notion of the morning after more than the actual morning after. Waking up naked to find someone in your bed, bending self-consciously to locate something, anything, to put on before traipsing to the bathroom. Discreetly trying to avoid that morning breath kiss, or worse yet, morning sex, because they all wanted that and were sure you did too when all you really wanted was some good strong coffee, two Advil, and to throw on your sweats and do the crossword puzzle by yourself.

The closest she had ever come to living with someone was Jack Willis. Once they had started sleeping together, she spent most nights at his apartment. His place was closer to work than hers and for some strange reason, she felt more comfortable with that arrangement because she knew she could simply leave at any time. Whenever he stayed at her place, she felt trapped, which, looking back on it now, really should have told her something. Her mother, tired of leaving unanswered messages at her apartment, had resorted to calling her cell phone instead, skillfully avoided phoning her anytime between the hours of 10 p.m. and 8 a.m. when she might be tempted to ask about Dana's whereabouts. Despite the fact that everyone suspected the situation was on a one-track course toward a more permanent arrangement, her parents still subscribed to the Catholic code of silence when it came to fornication. Don't talk about it and it isn't happening.

And she might have said yes to a proposal from him. She just might have up until that point when she woke up in his bed one Sunday morning and had a painful thought that if she had to do the same thing for the next fifty years, she might just whither and die like a parched flower. Up until the point when they were discussing the what ifs over pasta primavera and he said, "When we have kids of our own, it'll be this way..." and her stomach clenched. Up until the point when she was lying beneath him and he was calling her baby and she thought, 'This is nice.' And then when he was done and she still wasn't, she struggled out from underneath his heaviness and went to the bathroom to clean herself up and discovered that she had forgotten to take her pill that morning. Realistically, she knew it would be fine, that one missed pill was nothing, but still, she couldn't imagine. She just couldn't imagine. And so she ended it. Bags of clothing and CDs and toiletry items that had migrated apartments were returned. She requested a transfer within the Bureau and threw away the lingerie he had bought her. He told her she'd be sorry because no one would ever love her like he did. He was wrong.

 The idea that things might be different with Mulder had crossed her mind more than once, even though she banished the thoughts as quickly as they came. Still, she couldn't help sensing that she wouldn't mind the morning breath, that the morning sex would be every bit as transcendental as the bedtime sex and the middle-of-the-night sex. And afterward, they would do the crossword puzzle together in bed and eat grapes, completely naked, half draped in white sheets like Adonis and Aphrodite.

On her TV screen, Sigourney Weaver looked into a pair of slime-dripping jaws and opened fire. Things splattered about on the screen while Mulder went for another handful of chips. "That's not what they look like, Scully."

"Hmm," she hummed, munching.

"Aliens. They don't look like that."

"I know," she appeased him. It was easier than arguing that maybe it was possible he didn't know for sure exactly what aliens looked like. She also didn't really care. She just liked sitting this close to him and sharing a moment, even if it was over gory movies and trans fat. She slid her leg over underneath the covers as far as it would go, to where he lay on top, and he placed his hand on her knee. It was his chip eating hand, so he had to stop eating momentarily. She reached into the bag and fed him one. He smiled without taking his eyes off the screen and kept his hand right where it was. This was flirty Scully. She hadn't been seen in quite some time. Flirty Scully, meet Mulder. Mulder, this is Flirty Scully. She used to be quite a force back in her day. Maybe she's still got it.


	5. Chapter 5

Still February, 2000

 

"Suicide is Painless," he mumbled under his breath and her perplexed eyes made him chuckle like a madman and hold his head in his hands. Inappropriate responses were a normal part of the grieving process, she reminded herself, even though he was the psychologist, not her.

"It's the theme song from MASH," he said.

She cupped his head with her palm and his nose dripped into the inside of her elbow. All six feet whatever of him was crumpled into something compact enough for her to get two arms around, a near physical impossibility when he wasn't shattered and soul-crippled.

"Did she suffer, Scully?"

Everybody asked that. She had been doing autopsies for years and it was what everybody wanted to know. Her policy was that there was never a good reason to say yes. If a lie could bring comfort to the grieving, then what possible justification was there to withhold it?

"No, Mulder. She didn't suffer." And in all reality, Teena Mulder probably had not. Death by carbon monoxide inhalation was caused by asphyxia, which was not exactly painless. But in almost all cases, the victim was rendered unconscious minutes before suffocation occurred.

"Why wouldn't she tell me she was sick?" he asked the inside of her upper arm. His hands clutched the black fabric of her jacket like a security blanket.

She had no answers, so she held him a little tighter and heard the steady thrumming of his heartbeat with her ear to his back. She thought about him as a child, his mother holding him like this, after thunderstorms and bee stings and scraped knees. It was just him now, no family left, except her. Then again, maybe it had been this way for awhile. Her island of Mulder.   

"I didn't call her back. I should've known something was wrong.  I should've...she never calls me on the road."

"Mulder, you couldn't have known. This isn't your fault."

He pushed away from her and stood, paced quietly back and forth, head pitched low and fingers steepled, mouth moving in a silent liturgy. If she didn't know better, she'd swear he was praying. But she did know better. She had long ago reconciled herself to the fact that her prayers would have to be enough for both of them because she wouldn't go anywhere without him. Not even heaven.

She stood and touched his arm tentatively and he stopped moving. "Do you want me to give you something to help you sleep, Mulder?"

He shook his head. "I'm –I just need to figure some things out, that's all."

She sighed, worrying her lip. "There's nothing to figure out tonight," she said, running her palms from his elbows to his hands and squeezing. "You need to get some rest."

He pivoted and walked into his bedroom without a word, sloughing his T shirt off over his head and dropping it into a laundry basket on the floor. The button and zipper on his jeans were next and she felt ridiculous turning around and even more so not, so she went to his kitchen and busied herself washing up the few dirty dishes in his sink. A plate, two coffee mugs, a pan with crusty egg and a spatula, a few pieces of silverware.  She dried everything and put them away, not pausing to overthink the significance of knowing exactly where all the dishes went in his kitchen.

A fern, still in its little green plastic planter and sitting on a salad plate, struggled on the windowsill. When had he gotten a plant? Mighty optimistic of him when his fish were typically one meal away from a flush. She carried the trusting little sapling to the sink and watered it, lifting its branches tenderly to the mist and mentally coaching it to live, dammit. He had had his share of loss for the time being.

  When she returned to the living room, he was exiting his bedroom wearing a clean T shirt and pale yellow pajama pants. She had not seen them before. They seemed much more intimate than the sweatpants he wore on the road.  She suddenly felt overdressed.

"You don't have to stay, Scully. I'll be okay." He stood before her with mad scientist hair, bad posture, and shifty eyes. If a situation had ever called for responsible adult supervision, this was it.

"I'll stay."

"Then come to bed," he replied, matter-of-factly and returned to his bedroom.

She paused for a brief moment, but not to contemplate whether or not she'd go to his bed. Of course she would. Not for that, she suspected. That wasn't what he was asking for, but would she even know anymore when a man was? Yes, it had been that long.

She removed her jacket and draped it over his wooden chair, glancing down at the cluttered desktop, made even more untidy by his sudden outburst just an hour ago. She straightened stacks of papers and folders and righted an overturned desk lamp and a coffee mug full of pens. His checkbook lay open and face down on top of a cable bill. She flipped it over and looked for no good reason. $340 for his car payment. $57.90 at the dry cleaners. $30 for a haircut. These were things they never talked about. She had no idea what he paid for rent or what he owed on his Visa bill. These were things couples talked about. They just crossed continents to save one other's lives, that's all.

A hand rested gently on her shoulder and she jumped, her cheeks coloring at her transgression. She folded the checkbook closed and placed it back down on the desk. "I'm sorry, Mulder."

He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and shrugged. "It's all yours anyway. If anything ever happens to me."

"Don't-" she pleaded with a hand to his chest.

"What? Talk about dying? Seems somewhat appropriate, don't you think?" He took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom and to his closet, where he reached up to a shelf much higher than she'd ever reach without help, and pulled down a metal box.

"It's not locked." He demonstrated by opening it. There was a stack of folded papers, some in envelopes, others not, and a key lying on top. She eyed it, curiously. "It's to a safe deposit box," he said. "Everything's there." The key was attached to a small plastic keychain with a 60s style smiley face on it and the words 'Shit Happens.' Leave it to Mulder to weave irony into potential tragedy.

"So now you know," he said, returning the box to its original location. Then he picked up a small stack of  clothing folded neatly on his bed and handed it to her. "If you want to change into something to sleep."

Not even a year ago, one of them would have taken the couch while the other took the bed. That was then and this is now. Back when the slim possibility, however remote, still existed that perhaps she could possibly share a bed with another man someday. Then again, maybe she had mistakenly thought that possibility existed long after it no longer did. When had she become his?

In his bathroom, she was startled to see the toothbrush she had used during her stay in his apartment after the Pfaster ordeal was still standing tall in the toothbrush holder by his sink. She had a toothbrush in Mulder's bathroom now. She tried not to dwell on symbolism. What else would he have done with it? Throw it away? Put it in a closet? It was a two-dollar toothbrush and Christ, she was freaking just a little. Like he had put her name on his mailbox or something.

It suddenly occurred to her that maybe she was a commitment-phobe. In all of her past relationships, not that there had been all that many, she had been the one to end it. Interesting that she had never thought this through before, and yet a single toothbrush in Mulder's bathroom caused her to psychoanalyze her relationship patterns. Funny -  she had always pegged him as the runner. He had ditched her on more assignments than she cared to think about. And yet, lately he seemed to be exhibiting concentrated bursts of neediness when it came to her, intense, almost suffocating devotion interspersed among periods of casual normalcy, even disinterest.

One night he'd show up at her apartment unannounced with Thai food and a smile and she'd practically have to kick him out in order to go to bed, then the very next weekend, she wouldn't hear from him from the time they left work until Monday morning. One day last week, he had managed to corner and kiss her three separate times at work, once by stopping the elevator on its descent to the basement for a good five minute makeout session until she had pushed him back firmly with a palm to his chest and staggered away in her heels while he swiped lipstick from his mouth. After that, absolutely nothing for the rest of the week. Not even when she had sat down on the edge of his desk in a skirt, crossed her legs and said, "How 'bout lunch?" That hadn't even earned her a decent leer. And yet other times, she'd practically have to pry his eyeballs off her ass when she bent to reach the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. She wasn't sure which one of them was still figuring out what they wanted. It seemed to vary day to day.

She stripped down and used the toilet, washed her hands and face, and brushed her teeth. When she slipped on the T shirt Mulder had given her, it fell almost to her knees, so she opted to skip his jersey shorts. They were much too large and she'd have to literally hold them up at the waist. She exited the bathroom to find Mulder already in bed. The room was dark and she had trouble finding her way to the bed.

Thankfully, once her eyes adjusted, she could at least make out his lump underneath the covers, so she knew which side *not* to climb in on. That would have been embarrassing. Did he always sleep on one side? She did for reasons she suspected were a throwback from sharing a bed in previous relationships. Oddly enough, the side she tended to sleep on was the opposite of the one he did. How convenient, she smiled to herself and then quickly chided herself for the presumptive nature of her thoughts.

She hadn't been sure if he was asleep until he spoke. "Ever notice we only wind up in this bed together when there's a crisis?"

She huffed out a breath and reached for his hand on top of the comforter.

"Maybe we should try it under different circumstances sometime," he said, and she held her breath for a brief second, feeling as if even the most miniscule movement could possible convey something fraught with significance.

"If we did, it might mean something else entirely," she managed.

"Would that be so bad?"

She answered only with a sigh and a gentle squeeze of his hand.

"I don't think I can sleep," he said.

"Are you sure you don't want to take anything? I have my medical bag in my car."

"No, thanks. I'm a total idiot on sleeping pills. I'd sleep until noon tomorrow."

"It would be good for you. You don't sleep enough, Mulder. I've told you that before."

"I can't turn my brain off. You go ahead and sleep. I'll lie here and count by prime numbers or conjugate verbs or something."

"What would you do to fall asleep if I wasn't here?"

A crack of a laugh popped out of him and she felt her cheeks warm in the inky darkness.

"Besides that."

He cleared his throat. "Um," more chuckling, "gosh, it's hard to think of what else..." The amusement in his tone was audible.

"Mulder."

"Sorry. Maybe listen to music or watch TV."

"Music," she said, rolling onto her side to face him and tucking a bent elbow under the pillow.

He pawed for his nightstand. "Radio okay?"

"Yeah. No country or rap," she demanded.

"Picky, picky."

Several stations went by that she might have stopped on if it were her choice. He flew by something and then backtracked, pausing to listen with his back to her. He still had his T shirt on, but she could see the edge of his shoulder blade straining the fabric and she had to urge to slide a hand up inside the shirt and touch the warmth of him. Not appropriate, she reminded herself.

He flopped onto his back and the mattress bounced in squeaky protest. "This song makes me think of you a little bit."

She recognized it. Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen. She had never stopped to really listen to the words, but she did now.

"Mulder," her tongue clicked in mild disagreement. "Do you really think of me this way? That I hide things from you?"

He sighed. "Not just from me and not on purpose. I think there's a pocket inside you that you keep well-protected from everyone, even me."

"That's sad, Mulder."

"Not really. It's just you, Scully. It's as much a part of you as your expensive shoe fetish and the way you eat all the way around the crust of your sandwich and save the middle for last. It's what makes you you, and it's what makes me want to be with you."

"That's deep, Mulder."

"Thank you. I'm having acid flashbacks as we speak. Next we'll study our hands in front of a black light and play 'I Am The Walrus' backwards."

"Are there other songs that remind you of me?"

"Maybe. Yes."

"Which ones?"

"I can't tell you."

She frowned. "Why the hell not?"

"I'm shy."

She snorted out loud and swatted his arm gently, but he captured it and pulled her into a kiss that lasted somewhere between 'maybe this isn't the right time' and 'don't stop now.'

She backed away from it first, devoid of air and very acutely aware of his hand on her low, low back, his fingers tracing over the thin elastic waistband of her panties.

"No shorts," he breathed into the corner of her still open mouth.

"Too big. I figured you could be a gentleman about it."

"That's some reckless faith you've got there, Scully."

"What other songs remind you of me?" she pushed again.

His tongue darted out to tickle her earlobe. "Right now? Off the top of both heads, um... Lay Lady Lay, Let's Get it On, Light My Fire, Let's Spend The Night Together... hmmm, lots of L songs. Someday I'll make you a mixed tape. Mulder's L songs for Scully."

The hand that had been at her lower back had circled around and was inching its way past her abdomen, northbound. She caught it. "Mulder, maybe this isn't-"

He withdrew the disobedient hand and allowed his head to pitch back in defeat. "I know," he groaned, still breathing fast. "Why can't we ever get this right, Scully?"

Dizziness. Dizziness and the feeling like she was floating above her body. Her breasts tingled and she knew her nipples were hardened, alert to the possibility of a touch other than her own after so very long. Why couldn't she do this? Why did it have to be so complicated? Sometimes it was okay to just fuck. She had fucked men she hadn't loved before, not many, but a few. Why was it so hard to fuck one she did? She knew the answer. Because it wouldn't be just fucking between them any more. It would be something else entirely. There were other words for what it would be between them and she didn't know if she could manage those yet. She clenched her thighs together in frustration and pressed her fingernails into her palms. If he wasn't lying next to her right now, her hands would be doing other things.

Rod Stewart droned from the radio about Maggie May and going back to school and playing pool. She had this song on a 45 record when she was in fifth grade. Melissa had sat on it accidentally and had broken it and when she went to buy her a new one, Dana had chosen Crocodile Rock instead when she should have stuck with another copy of Maggie May. The random snippets of life that will forever be associated with songs. The same way that My Girl always made her think of her father teaching her to dance in the kitchen before the eighth grade dance, and how Heart of Glass by Blondie reminded her of the first time she got really drunk and Missy had to sneak her in the back door after she threw up on her shoes.

Apparently Mulder was feeling less nostalgic. He silenced the radio with one slap of the palm, stood abruptly and grabbed a pillow. "I'll take the couch."

"No, Mulder. No." She reached for his hand and coaxed him back down to a seated position with his back to her. His shoulders hunched forward.

"You told me before you didn't want this and I pushed again. I'm sorry. I guess I'm not thinking straight right now," he said, wearily.

She sighed and tugged at his shirt until he unfolded his length onto the bed again, feet dangling off the end like usual. Didn't he ever get sick of not fitting? On beds, in airplane seats, into compact cars? Then again, who was she to talk? She had to use a stool to reach the spices in her kitchen and she literally had to look up to speak to just about anyone over the age of ten.

"I'm not saying no, Mulder. I'm saying not now. I just need a little more...time, I guess. This thing between us – I'm afraid to want it," she confessed.

His head pivoted on the pillow to face her. "I remember what that's like," he said and her heart swelled just a little.

They lay side by side on their backs and she swept the sheet with her bare leg, connecting her foot to some hairy part of his body, a bony knee or a calf. Warmth radiated off him. He was like one of those dogs that you wanted to get stuck in a snowstorm with, if you had to get stuck in a snowstorm. A Saint Bernard. He drooled a little less, but had the big feet. There was never a time when she didn't feel overwhelming affection toward him. Even when she could not tolerate even one more second of his pontificating, and she fantasized about handcuffing him to the filing cabinet and silencing him with a mouthful of his tacky tie, he could still soften her with a touch to her back, could completely disarm her with a slow steady blink and a pouty lip. If he cupped the side of her face or tucked her hair for her, she was liable to roll over for a tummy rub.

"How can you know, Mulder? How can you know this would work?"

His exhale was long. "How can we know anything? What I do know is I can't live without you, so what choice do I have?"


	6. Chapter 6

Late February, 2000

 

Mulder scuffed his feet on the pavement as he walked because it made him feel a little bad ass. Scully walked a half a step ahead of him in her heeled boots and jeans and black leather jacket and she managed to actually look a little bad ass. She had been doing that walking ahead of him thing lately. He figured it had to do with the sorting out process she was doing regarding their relationship and her need to remind him of her independence.

"I was almost slain tonight by a video ninja babe," he said to the night sky, his head tilted back.

"I know," she replied.

"You saved me."

"I know."

"Where do you guys want to eat?" asked Frohike, who was sandwiched between Byers in the lead and Scully behind him. Then came Mulder. Then came Langly and that Phoebe chick lagging ten paces behind and sharing a smoke. Mulder could sense that Langly was thinking maybe.

"Why don't you ask Phoebe?" suggested Byers. "She's local."

"There's a microbrewery two blocks up," she called out, having overheard.

"I think you owe me a beer, Mulder," said Scully.

"I think I owe you an all expenses paid vacation, a new car, and a big screen TV."

"You can start with the beer."

"Can I have the TV?" asked Frohike.

They were seated at a huge round booth in the back, sticking to their already established order: Byers slid in first, then Frohike, Scully, and Mulder, with Langly and Phoebe on the end. Coats were discarded and piled up on an empty chair in a mountain of leather and denim with frayed sleeves. An ambitious number of pitchers of beer were ordered, making Mulder confident that the remainder of the evening would be spent on foot or attempting to fit as many inebriated people as possible into cabs. Maybe Scully would have to sit on his lap. She was the smallest. He'd fight Frohike for her.

He ordered a cheeseburger with sweet potato fries and Scully followed suit. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her eat a cheeseburger. It was an omen. It meant anything was possible tonight. Well, maybe not anything. He didn't dare to hope.

Technically the case was over, but there hadn't been anything more than a couple of brief stolen kisses since that night in his apartment when she'd worn his T shirt but not his shorts. He had woken in the predawn light to find her back to him and the blankets hovering below her waist. His navy blue shirt had ridden up high enough for him to see peach colored cotton panties and a two inch expanse of pale skin before the shirt picked up again.  Her leg had been bent, her hip high, accentuating the dip of her waist. It had taken every ounce of control he had not to bend down and run the flat of his tongue over the exposed skin. Her femaleness had assaulted every last one of his senses. It might have been the closest he'd ever been to being able to come without even touching himself, but she had stirred and reached for the comforter before he could achieve abject humiliation. The image had been branded into his brain, however, and it had taken him no more than half a dozen tight strokes in the shower that morning to find release, all the while with her innocently drinking coffee and reading the editorials in his living room.   

She ate her cheeseburger with one leg bent and tucked underneath, her knee against his thigh.  He wanted to rest his hand on it, but she wouldn't have appreciated his boldness and he didn't want to deal with getting the puppy dog eye from Frohike, and also, his hand was greasy from his cheeseburger. So he flirted by stealing her pickles and squirting a smiley face on her plate with ketchup.

Frohike got up to use the john and everyone had to scoot out, one by one, oozing back in out of order so that Byers was in between he and Scully now. Pitchers of beer were passed around for the third time and Phoebe sang along to Free Falling, Langly pulling in some low harmony and bobbing his head, slacker style.

"Hey, let's find some karaoke!" said Phoebe. She smiled at Scully in girl solidarity. "We'll sing some Go-Go's or The Bangles."

Mulder snorted and then quickly recovered with a long pull from his beer.

"What? You got a problem with that?" Scully eyebrowed him.

"Not even one," he replied, and it was the truth. Scully couldn't sing a lick, but he loved to hear her just the same. Scully doing drunken karaoke was something he might even pay money to see. He feared it might also involve Frohike taking on Freebird, though, which was a scene he could live without.

They stumbled back into the night, thick as thieves. Scully swayed and righted herself with an arm around his waist and two fingers through his belt loop. He reciprocated with one around her shoulder and they stayed that way for some time, a combination of leaning and walking going on and nobody really caring because they were all pretty buzzed and what happened in Southern California stayed in Southern California.

"What's the plan?" asked Byers.

"More partying," piped in Langly and Phoebe contributed a giggle. They were still bringing up the end of the line. There seemed to be a correlation between how much hair one had and how slow they walked.

"If we keep heading in this direction, we'll hit the pier. There's a bunch of stuff down there – bars, arcades..." said Phoebe, zipping up her hoodie and sinking her hands into her pockets. He supposed she could be cold. It was a matter of perspective. To the D.C. crowd, this felt like spring. He bent his head back and huffed into the air.

"It's late February and I can't see my breath, Scully. Let's move here."

She smiled and tilted her head lazily against his shoulder. "And do what, work in surf shops?"

"Live off love."

He caught a roll of the eyes from Frohike.    

*************************************************************************************

Byers and Frohike hurled insults over an air hockey table next to them. Phoebe and Langly had disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of Super Streetfighter awhile ago. He handed Scully another ball.

"Keep going. You're at 48,000 points and climbing. I want that Simpsons key chain that plays six different catch phrases."

"I figured you for the blow- up alien," said Scully, rolling another one up into the 500 slot.

"Nah, blow-up dolls aren't really my thing."

She ignored him, too intent on her game to acknowledge his ill attempts at eighth grade humor. "Can you just see Skinner's face in our next meeting, Scully, when he hears Bart Simpson say, 'Eat My Shorts!'?" He snickered loudly.

"He'd kill you, Mulder. I'd kill you."

"When did you get to be the Queen of Skee Ball? See, this is something I didn't know about you. I love when that happens."

"There was an arcade two blocks from the base we lived on when I was eleven. We used to stop every day on our way home from school."

"Get another 1000," he grinned.

She shook her head, reproachfully. "That's where people go wrong. They get greedy and always go for the 1000. But if you miss, it falls into the zero. If you stick with aiming for the 500 and miss, you usually still get 400 or 300."

"I didn't realize there was such a complicated strategy to Skee Ball."

"Oh yes. Get me some more tokens, Mulder."

He extracted his wallet from his pocket and thumbed through. "All I have left are twenties."

"Money bags. There's a five in my back pocket. Grab it."

His grin got wider. "You're giving me permission to feel up your ass in public?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures."

A half hour and 450 tickets later, they were perusing their junk choices at the redemption counter. Byers combined all his tickets with Frohike, who cashed them in on a pocket full of atomic fireballs, a decoder ring, and a rubber chicken.

"Hey Scully, for just forty more tickets, we can get both the Simpsons key chain and a whoopee cushion."

"I'm done, Mulder."

Langly and Phoebe wandered over. "Hey everybody. Phoebe's girlfriend is singing in a band over at a place called The Wayside. Let's hit it."

"Yeah, it's kind of a sixties throwback, Janis Joplin, Grace Slick kind of deal," added Phoebe. "I have weird friends."

"I think I know what that's like," he heard Scully mumble as she leaned her black leather elbows on the glass counter, biker chick style. She outclassed them all by a mile.

Mulder bent toward Langly's ear. "Her girlfriend?"

"Not that kind," he whispered back. "I checked." Mulder gave him a 'carry on' nod.

Scully handed Mulder the coveted key chain and draped a candy necklace over her own head, lifting it to bite off a pink one. He wondered if he'd be invited to share.

 "Let's hail a cab," suggested Byers.

"Hey, let's see how many of us we can cram into the back seat," said Langly, and Mulder wondered how he'd ever been passed over for the Bill and Ted movies.

"Cowabunga!" said Bart Simpson.

*************************************************************************************

She leaned against him where he stood, propping up a wall to the left of the stage. "My buzz is wearing off, Mulder. Get me a Corona with lime."

"You got it." He bent and chewed off a piece of the candy necklace and she tilted to let him. Frohike and Byers were seated at a high top next to them and Mulder stopped and rapped his knuckles twice on the table. "Anything from the bar, Gents?"

Frohike's eyes narrowed. "What do I have to do to get a piece of that necklace?"

Mulder offered a tight-lipped smile and slapped his shoulder.

"I'll come up with you," said Melvin.

They waded through body piercings and colorful hair, past Langly and Phoebe doing some kind of mosh pit slam to Jefferson Airplane's Somebody to Love.

"You two have been cozy all night," Frohike yelled over the music. "Should I ask?"

Mulder shrugged. "You can ask, but I don't have an answer."

Frohike gave him a bulldog scowl. "You mean you're not-"

"Not what?"

"If I have to spell it out for you, then you're worse off than I thought."

Mulder chuckled. "If you mean has our professional partnership become slightly less professional, then yes, there has been a notable shift. If you're asking if I know first-hand what it's like to wake up in Georgetown with a smile on my face, then no, I do not."

"Why not? You love her, right?"

"What is this – True Confessions?"

Frohike continued staring at him, unwaveringly.

Mulder sighed. "Yeah. I love her. It's complicated, though."

"No it's not. You love her. She loves you. It couldn't be simpler."

"There's a little more to it than that."

Frohike shook his head. "Neither one of you is married, gay, crazy, incarcerated, or Republican, right? It's a piece of cake, then."

Mulder scratched his head. "I'm thinking about the crazy part. What would be the criteria exactly?"

"Everybody wants to muck it up when it's right. Take it from me, Bro. Something like this only comes along once in a lifetime, and that's if you're lucky."

Mulder's eyes narrowed at his friend and he tilted his head.

"Don't look at me like that. That's all you're getting."

On their walk back to their table, Mulder considered what he knew about Melvin, mostly bits and pieces he had gathered over the years. He had never been married, but there had been someone and Melvin had never gotten over her. She had gotten sick. He carried a tattered photo in his wallet and once, when he had taken a credit card out, the photo had fallen and Mulder had retrieved it and handed it back to him. She had dark hair and a pretty smile and she looked to be about thirty-five or so in the picture. When Mulder had questioned him with his eyes, Melvin had simply said, "My Scully." Every year in July, Frohike disappeared for about four days and went up to Long Island, where he was from. Mulder suspected the timing had to do with the anniversary of something he was both trying to remember and trying to forget.

Mulder handed Scully her beer and slinked an arm around her waist discreetly and she let him keep it there, swaying in time to the beat. The band segued into a languid version of Me and Bobby McGee and Phoebe and Langly made their way back to the group, flushed and out of breath from dancing.

A bachelorette party congregated next to their group with margaritas and too much eye shadow, singing at the top of their lungs to the song.

By the chorus, the overall mood had infiltrated the rest of the bar and most people were on their feet singing along. Phoebe stood on the other side of Scully, one arm slung over her shoulder, like they hadn't just met for the first time twelve hours ago.

"Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose, Nothin', don't mean nothin' Honey, if it ain't free...And feelin' good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues...You know, feelin' good was good enough for me...good enough for me and my Bobby McGee...."

The la, da, da's were belted loudly and off-key with beers raised high. Scully's cheeks were rosy from the warmth of the room and from the alcohol. She looked carefree and happy and he imagined this was how she might have looked as a young college student, smart and fresh and full of idealism, with a ponytail and an answer to everything. If he had spotted her in a bar like this back then, would he have noticed her? Bought her a drink, asked her to dance, taken her home with him? Would she have even given him the time of day? Probably not, he smiled to himself. She would have been out of his league even then, with her shiny Einstein paradoxes.

He exchanged a look with her and she stopped singing and beamed at him. It was one of those totally genuine, in the moment, heart stopping, rest of the world fading away smiles and he wanted to haul her over his shoulder and carry her off to a deserted island with him for the rest of their lives. He'd feed her chocolate covered strawberries and paint her toenails for her. She'd recite poetry to him and wash his hair (he was oddly turned on by having a woman wash his hair). She'd wear a sarong half the time and be naked the other half.  They'd never have to think about monsters or aliens or filing taxes ever again. Their arguments would be over getting sand in the sheets or how to tap a coconut or what month it was, because neither of them could remember. When it rained, they'd make love under a thatched roof. He'd spend entire afternoons tracing the curve of her hip or the swell of her breast. They'd be happy. Flawlessly, deliriously happy.

"Mulder?" She tugged on his arm.

He could hear her again because the music had stopped. There was a girl with Lisa Loeb cats eye glasses on stage telling everyone not to go away because the band was just taking a ten minute break.

They left anyway.

Out on the sidewalk, Scully bummed a cigarette off of Phoebe and a light from Frohike. Mulder had  seen her smoke only once before. It was surreal. The only thing weirder would've been seeing the Surgeon General light up.

She offered it to him and he took a drag and handed it back to her. "Nasty habit," he said through choked breaths.

"Very," she agreed. "That's why it's not a habit. Anymore."

"I didn't know you used to smoke, Scully."

"Briefly. A little bit in college. I quit in med school, but even now, once in a blue moon, with a beer..." her voice trailed off and she took another long drag, exhaling skyward out of the edge of her mouth with her head tipped back.    

Someone spotted a tiny, dilapidated playground that had seen better days and they headed for it, over dew slicked grass, under humming streetlights. Red cigarette dots bobbed in the dark like crazed fireflies. Mulder and Byers were the only ones not smoking. Bunch of delinquents.

"I can't believe I'm out partying with feds," giggled Phoebe.

"Don't worry, they don't really arrest people much," said Langly.

"They slay monsters and hunt extra terrestrials," added Frohike.

A loud laugh cracked from Phoebe. She thought they were kidding.

There were three swings and Mulder, Scully, and Byers lined up on them. Frohike stretched out on his back on top of a picnic table, arms crossed under his head, stargazing and smoking. Langly and Phoebe headed for an old rusty metal slide that listed to one side suspiciously. Scully stomped out her cigarette with a twist of her boot in the dirt, backed herself up into the black rubber swing and sailed forward, immediately starting to pump her legs. She was a natural at this, he could tell. Mulder was too tall to fit properly, so he sat, knees just about up to his chin, feeling the gust of air as Scully flew by him. She was tipped backwards now, body flat, pulling back on the chain links.

"Dare me to jump?" she called out.

"No! Jesus, Scully."

Her carefree laugh resonated through the quiet. "Just kidding. I'm not that drunk, Mulder."

She stopped pumping and allowed gravity to slow her to a stop. Her hair was parted in the back now, completely pushed forward and blanketing her face. She pushed it back with one hand. Mulder reached and tucked back a stubborn lock that was still clinging to her lip gloss. She smiled and captured his hand, jumping up and tugging him along. "Come on. Let's walk."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere. Not far," she said, lacing her fingers into his. He tucked both their hands into the pocket of his jacket.  They walked a wide berth around the metal slide where Phoebe was sitting at the bottom and Langly was leaning in, thoroughly checking out her dental work.

Scully snickered quietly. "Doesn't he have a girlfriend back in D.C.?"

"Langly? Nuh uh."

"Yes. What about that goth girl with the-with the nose ring? She was with him that night in December when I came to get you because you locked your keys in the car. Remember?"

"Ruby? No. They're just friends."

"Just friends like we're just friends, or just friends?" She was arching one eyebrow and smirking up at him.

"Just friends," he smiled. "Langly's not her type."

She frowned like he had just told her she smelled funny, and he realized that despite her protests to the contrary, she had a soft spot for the three amigos and was actually quite protective of them. "Why not?"

"Because he has a penis, for one thing. Ruby likes women."

"Oh." She was quiet for a minute. "But do you really think this could work? I mean, Phoebe lives all the way out here. You don't think he'd move, do you?"

He patted her hand and chuckled. "Well, so far he's kissed her. Maybe we should wait a little while before we mail the wedding invitations."

Scully sighed and smiled, contentedly. "I like Phoebe. She seems nice."

"She does," he agreed.

They came to a wooden structure with a series of uneven platforms, a creative jungle gym of sorts. Mulder hoisted himself up, then offered a hand to Scully who took it. They climbed to the top platform and sat down, side by side. She swung her legs and sighed.

"We should do more of this," she said.

"More of-" he lingered, unsure.

"-normal people things. Things that don't involve anything life threatening or death defying."

"I don't know. That thing you did on the swing had me going for a minute."

She giggled and he leaned so his lips were hovering inches from hers for several long seconds...before smiling and bending down to bite a piece of candy off her necklace.  

"Tease."

"It takes one to know one, Agent Scully."

She responded by wrapping one hand around his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers in a solid liplock. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, putting an arm around her back to draw her closer. Soft and yielding, she parted her lips and invited him in. Their tongues slid together as they changed angles. Her thigh pressed firmly against his and her fingers spread themselves in his hair and kneaded his scalp.

"D'Oh!"

"Don't have a cow, man!"

His key chain came to life inside his pocket and she giggled into his mouth, pulling back and pressing her forehead to his. "Let's get out of here and head back to the hotel," she said and he tried not to overanalyze whether that loaded statement meant the end of a night or the beginning of one. He was no longer in the driver's seat, so he'd just buckle up and enjoy the ride.

They wandered back, hand in hand, and informed the Gunmen – well two of them anyway – that he and Scully were going to catch a cab back to their hotel. The look Frohike gave them strongly suggested that perhaps their little public display of affection hadn't been as discreet as they had thought. Byers just cleared his throat, stared down at his shoes, and wished them a good night. Scully pulled her candy necklace off over her head, draped it over Melvin's and leaned over to give him a sweet peck on the cheek. Mulder wouldn't have been surprised to return to that very spot the next morning to find that Frohike hadn't moved an inch, still frozen in place with that starstruck, open-mouthed grin on his face.

*************************************************************************************

When they reached their neighboring hotel rooms, still holding hands, Mulder pulled his key card from his wallet, but lingered in front of her door. Her eyes were slightly sleepy and heavy-lidded and her hair was tousled. She listed against the door frame in her black boots and leather, white blouse unbuttoned just a little more than it had been when the evening began. She looked sexy has hell.

"I don't want to say goodnight yet," she said, her voice low and raspy like it often got when she had just performed a 2 a.m. autopsy.

"Okay." He leaned into her with a palm braced on the wall above her head. He was still a little buzzed, so he assumed she was at least that too. She had matched him drink for drink.

"I can't sleep with you tonight," she said in a breathy alto, eyeing him from under thick, heavy lashes. Bedroom eyes. That's what they were.  

"Okay." He wondered if 'can't' meant something different than 'won't.'

"You want to watch TV then?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"What do you want to do?" He always stumbled at this part. The what-to-do-at-the-door part. He either got invited in or he didn't. If he did, then it usually meant one thing. With Scully, nothing followed any predictable pattern. It was like trying to do one of those dot-to-dot puzzles where all the numbers were scattered all over the page. His pen was paused and leaking ink at number thirty-two and he couldn't, for the life of him, spot where number thirty-three was.

"Draw me a map, Scully," he whispered, his large hand under her jacket and bracketing one side of her waist.

"Maybe just a little more of this." She stretched up to sip shyly at his lips, her eyes open and connecting with his. "If you can...if it's not too-"

"It's not," he jumped in, not willing to admit to himself that it might be.

*************************************************************************************

He was kissing her on her hotel bed. They had both shed their jackets and shoes, but otherwise remained clothed. One tiny light over by the closet offered the only illumination. He could see her face and all the important parts, but he wouldn't have been able to read a takeout menu and he couldn't quite tell if the ugly flowers on the bedspread were purple or blue.

She was soft and small under him and he leaned just his torso over her, peppering her jaw, the tiny shells of her ears, her neck with kisses. Slender fingers skimmed up and down his back and then she was tugging his shirt from his pants and sliding hot hands underneath it. Something ignited in him and he rolled himself more fully on top of her and began a deep and steady grind. He could cut glass, he was so hard. She slid against him, her hips rising and falling and doing this mind-bending circular motion that was going to slowly drive him insane.    

He pulled back, his lips separating from hers with an audible pop. The room spun and he didn't think it was from the alcohol. "We need to slow down," he panted.

"Okay." And they did. For a few minutes. The kisses became less frantic and they traded the dry humping for more of a rocking motion. He started over again at her hairline, brushing his lips gently on her forehead and working his way down. Her eyelids, lashes, the bridge of her perfect nose, cheekbones that would have been worthy of Botticelli's brush, and then finally the lips again – first the top, then the bottom. He drew each into his mouth and sucked on them, then flicked his tongue to tickle them. And therein lay the problem again. It was the tongues. Definitely the tongues. When they got involved, his self-control went to hell in a hand basket. And hers wasn't much better as she arched under him, tiny moans like bubbles escaping her.

Her eyes fluttered open and closed, her lashes like rose petals on his cheek. Her nipples stood at attention, visible pebbles straining her blouse. He would give up air just to make love to her right now. He was confused. Confused and in love and more aroused than he'd been, possibly ever.

"Scully, why-" he started, struggling with his words. Shit fuck. She had already said no. Right there in the hallway. Full clothed and of sound mind and just a little drunk. She had said no. She had her reasons and he had to respect them. And in order to do that, he needed to leave. Now.

But she wasn't letting him go. He was still poised on top of her and now her knees were bent and his hips were sandwiched in the sweet valley of her thighs. She cupped his face and continued the onslaught on his mouth and all five of his senses, plus his efforts to be a gentleman.

"It's not that I don't want to," she whispered in short hot bursts into his ear. "Not a good time..." more grinding of her pelvic bone against his cock, "...for me."

His brain sputtered back to life, fitting the puzzle pieces. Oh that. Shit fuck. What were the chances? About four or five out of twenty-eight, he overthought, still rubbing shamelessly against her. "I don't care. It's fine, Scully. Really, it's okay. It doesn't bother me." He sounded desperate, even to himself.

Her eyes opened fully now and she put a gentle hand to his chest. The light had switched from green to yellow and was well on its way to red. "No, Mulder. No." She made a distasteful face. "Not for the first time, no. It's just not...how I want it to be."

He groaned and flopped to the side, one arm over his face. It was official – he was the poster boy for Murphy's Law. Why couldn't the universe stop spinning for them just once? Just for an hour? Okay, even twenty minutes would do it. He'd make it the best twenty minutes of her life.

"I gotta go, Scully. I gotta go or I'm going to start begging."

She huffed out a tiny laugh. "That wasn't begging?"

"It's not funny. I think my balls could glow in the dark they're so blue."

Her tongue clicked and she rubbed his arm apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I shouldn't have started something I couldn't finish."

"Don't be ridiculous, Scully. I'm not fifteen. I'll live. I just have to go, that's all." He sighed. "Do you have any idea how much I want you sometimes?"

"Just sometimes?" He heard the smile in her voice.

"Well, only when I'm awake. And once in awhile when I'm asleep."

He heard her exhale and roll to face him. Then he felt her arm slide up and over his chest and down to his lower abdomen. She plucked at the button on his jeans.

His hand quickly covered hers. "Jesus Christ, Scully, stop! If you're saying no, then say no. Don't pull this crap on me and expect me to walk out of here a gentleman."

"Shhhh, Mulder. Just relax. I'm not changing the game on you, just bending the rules a little." His zipper slid down. "Let me help."

"Scully, don't, come on. You don't have to do this." But he made no move to stop her. It was possible that he lacked the chromosome to do so.

"Stop because you don't want me to, or stop because you feel badly you can't reciprocate?"

His chest rose and fell as his brain sorted through her question. "Um, I- are you kidding me?" Her hand stroked him through denim, her fingernail making a scritching noise. "The second choice...but I'm quickly getting on board with the idea."

"Relax and get over yourself, Mulder. I'm not keeping a score card."

Her voice oozed like honey. He swallowed and closed his eyes as she folded the flaps of his jeans down and drew him out of his boxers.

Holyyyyyyyyy shit. His head pressed back into the pillow and his mouth fell open. Her hand felt like hot smooth butter on him. If his cock could sing, it would be belting out the National Anthem in four-part harmony right about now, and hitting all the high notes. Her grip was firm, but not tight, absolutely perfect. His eyes opened to half mast, just far enough to watch her raise one hand to her mouth and deposit a little bit of saliva on her palm for lubrication and then return it to his penis. How did she know?  How the hell did she know exactly how to touch him? Oh God, it felt dreamlike. His entire body floated and his muscles flexed and relaxed with her rhythm.

She buried her face in his neck and made a purring sound as her hand pumped him a little faster, shuttling up and down, sliding and twisting. The bed jiggled with her movements and her upper arm tensed against him with her efforts.

His breathing quickened. This was going to take an embarrassingly short amount of time, he realized. "Almost....yeah, like that..."

"Mmmm," she hummed into his ear and he lost it completely, hips raising entirely off the bed and pumping into her hand as he exploded. He heard her breath hitch a little and felt the warmth on his stomach, his groin. He could smell himself, pungent and familiar.

Her movements slowed gradually and eventually stopped. He made an attempt at words, but came up empty and settled for a long moan.

"Wow," she said.

"Translation, please," he panted.

"Um, I'm not sure there are any fluids left in you."

Yeah, it had been a few days. Mess. Big mess. And this was her room. Fuck. "Sorry, Scully. We can trade rooms, if you want."

"It's okay," she chuckled, getting up and heading for the bathroom. He heard water running while she washed her hands, he assumed. Then she returned with a large bath towel. "But I will pilfer one of the towels from your room to replace this one."

He rolled over a little, hit a wet spot, and recoiled. To his utter humiliation, Scully sat down and began dabbing at the spot with the towel. "Do you know how much semen shows up under UV light in most hotel rooms?" he offered, trying to rescue himself by appealing to the science geek in her.

She quirked a smile. "I try not to think about it."

He clutched at the corner of the offensive bedspread and began stripping it down and off. The flaps of his jeans still hung open and his rapidly-shrinking penis protruded from the opening of his boxers. He had managed to decorate himself as well. Translucent fluid puddled in the dip of his groin. It was not one of his more dignified moments. He reached for the towel and began cleaning himself off.

Scully cleared her throat. "Um, I'm trading pillows with you too." 

"I got the pillow?" he asked, feebly.

She toggled her brows and smiled. "Impressive arc for a man your age, truthfully."

He grimaced. "I-I don't even know what to say to that. Thanks? Why can't men do this neatly, like women do?"

"Because all of humankind would eventually die off?"

"Well, yeah, there's that."

She gripped his hand in hers. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To sleep in the other room."


	7. Chapter 7

Mid-March, 2000

 

She needed to go home and take the world's longest shower. She needed to stand under scorching hot water and scrub her skin raw. She needed to unpack her overnight bag and burn everything in it, everything that bastard had touched or even seen her in. She had left the black dress there, hanging in the armoire. It would still smell like her. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat.

Mulder stood three feet from her, and yet it could have been three miles. She had no idea what he needed, other than for the last forty-eight hours to never have happened. She had spent seven years learning to read him. She recognized his 'I know you think I'm crazy, but you're not changing my mind' look, his 'I'm about to do something that breaks every rule in the book and you're coming with me' look, his 'I shouldn't have eaten that truck stop chili' look, and about four hundred other distinctive ones. But right now, he was totally unreadable to her. All she knew was that it wasn't good. She didn't ever recall a time when he wouldn't meet her eyes. 

Alan Byers had touched her elbow on his way out and had paused briefly, shifting his feet, like he'd wanted to say something to her, something comforting. He had a gentle, chivalrous side that had always appealed to Scully. Frohike stopped to mumble something to Mulder that included her name. She thought she also picked up the words "overreact," "hurt", "needs you", and "croutons," but she wouldn't wage money on that last one. She hadn't eaten since 6 a.m.

The door of his apartment snicked shut and uncomfortable silence prevailed. She risked a glance at him again, but he hadn't moved a muscle in well over ten minutes. He stood in the archway to the living room, arms crossed in front of him, back against the wall and head tilted to the ceiling. His eyes stared blankly at a yellowish brown water-stain.

"Mulder, I had to take the chance. What he offered me- you would have done-"

"Don't," he cut her off, looking right at her now with dull, vacant eyes. "You don't get to tell me what I would have done."

"I'm not crazy, Mulder. He had an office. I saw it. I was there."

"How many times do I have to say it, Scully? You saw what he wanted you to see. He used you."

"For what? What could he have possibly gained from this? From me?"

"He must have switched the disks. He needed you to take delivery of the disk for him and then he switched them without you knowing."

She sighed and shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense. He could've used anyone to do that. He didn't need me."

"He wanted your trust. He played with your emotions and he was after your trust. To get to me. Fuck, Scully, what the hell could you have been thinking?" His voice rose and he ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Do you have any idea what he's capable of?"

She frowned at him, her emotions shifting, her voice edged with anger now. "How can you say that...to me? After everything we've been through? Don't treat me like a child. I had a difficult choice to make and I made it. How many times have you risked your life pursuing what you thought was the truth only to come up empty-handed? I've lost count, Mulder." She rubbed two trembling hands back and forth over her thighs. "I'm a doctor and I had to take this chance. I just had to. I would think that you, of all people, would understand that."

"You lied to me."

"I HAD NO CHOICE!" she shouted. Her eyes swamped and she cursed under her breath and got up to pull two tissues from the box on his desk. Several minutes of silence passed while she gained control over her emotions. "I sent you tapes. I wired myself before we left and I sent you tapes from a rest stop near the Pennsylvania border."

"I didn't get anything."

"I can't explain that."

"Someone got to them, intercepted them."

She sighed loudly, but was otherwise silent. Her end of this argument was getting much too heavy. Her stomach burned and her head hurt and she was just so exhausted.

"Where did he take you?"

"I-I can't be sure exactly. It was a house. In rural Pennsylvania."

"Did he threaten or harm you?"

Her eyes swept the room and she bit her bottom lip, hesitating.

"Scully-"

She took a deep breath and exhaled. "There's a period of time that I can't account for. I fell asleep in the car and...when I woke up again, it was the next morning. I was in a bed by myself. My clothes had been removed and I was wearing pajamas."

His posture went erect and his nostrils flared. This was another look she knew. It was especially rare; she could only recall a handful of occasions, one of which was a couple of years ago right before he  assaulted a pharmaceutical representative who wouldn't disclose the details of Emily's condition.

He reached for his jacket and pulled it on, still refusing eye contact with her.

"Mulder, where are you going?"

He didn't answer, but stalked toward the door.

"Mulder, don't-"

She started after him, reaching her hand out, but he moved quickly and intently, tipping over an umbrella stand and scattering a pair of shoes on the floor in his wake. A gust of air followed the slamming of his front door.

*************************************************************************************

When she opened her eyes, her face was stuck. To the leather of his couch where she had slept like the dead with her shoes still on for who knows how long. A scratchy wool blanket had been draped over her from hip to shoulder. When her eyes focused, she saw that he sat on the floor in front of the couch, his head propped on a folded arm that was half on, half off of the middle couch cushion where her stomach lay.

She pressed a warm hand to his shoulder and he stirred and breathed deeply.

"My God, where did you go? I was so worried," she whispered.

He nuzzled his face into her blanket-covered hip and huffed out a breath. "There seems to be a lot of that going around."

She echoed his half-hearted chuckle and covered her face with her hands, rubbing her temples. When she removed them, he was propped on his elbows, studying her gravely. "Scully, I want to take you to the hospital. You should get checked out."

Her mind searched for a moment, and then she blinked heavily and shook her head. "No, Mulder. It's not necessary."

"There could be...evidence. If he did something to you."

"He didn't."

"How do you know?"

"I  just...do. I would know. I would."

"You don't know that. Not if he drugged you or-"

"Mulder, please. You have to trust me. He didn't harm me. Not physically anyway."

"He touched you against your will. Even that would be enough to-to-"

"To do what? Have him arrested for assault? It would be impossible to prove and then what? We both know nothing would stick. He doesn't answer to the same laws that you or I do. That everyone else does. It's not worth it, I'm fine."

He looked away and she felt him trying to steady his breathing, calm himself again.

She took his hand in both of hers. "He didn't rape me. I would know that. You have to trust me."

His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth and back again slowly, considering. He finally gave a half nod. "I believe you," he conceded. "If I didn't, he'd be dead right now."

She closed her eyes and her hand went to the back of his head. "Where did you go?"

He sighed. "Nowhere. Driving. Thinking."

She drew a deep breath. "I've been thinking too. Since you left."

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but she silenced him with a fingertip to the lips.

"Mulder, this is exactly what I feared might happen if...things changed between us...if we got involved."

"We've been involved for years."

"Not like this. You know what I mean," she said, pulling her bottom lip in and shaking her head slowly.

"Scully, you're wrong. It's not different. If you had disappeared like that at any time during our partnership and I thought you were in trouble, I would've done the same thing, reacted the same way."

"You would have worried, yes. Gone after me, maybe. But it wouldn't be like this and I think you know that. You've made this personal, Mulder. You reacted like...like a jilted lover...as if I cheated on you."

His eyes flashed and he was startled into silence for a moment. Then he huffed out a breath and shook his head. "You're wrong, Scully."

"Am I?"

They locked eyes and neither spoke. The air in the room had shifted, thickened, and she was hyper aware of background noises. He bubbling of the fish tank, a distant siren, the muted sounds of a neighbor's TV. Finally he moved, got up and stretched, then sat down on the sofa next to her, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands. There were several inches between their shoulders, but that wasn't the only distance separating them.

"Mulder, I don't know what this means...how to deal with this from you. Whatever this is that we're doing or not doing-" her hand gestured between them, "I need to be able to make decisions without you treating me like I'm your...God, I don't know."  And she didn't. She knew a hell of a lot of things, but how to deal with her brooding best friend slash work partner slash soul mate, with whom she currently had a relationship more convoluted than anything the UN could navigate, well, that simply hadn't been on any of the tests. Why couldn't everything in life be sorted out with multiple choice answers and a number two pencil?

"So what are you saying?" he asked, quietly. "Do you want to go back to the way things were?"

Like flipping a switch. Hitting rewind. Backspace, escape, shift alt delete. Wipe the slate clean and start over. Take it back; it didn't fit.

Thirty-six years had trained her that there was a logical way to do everything from programming her VCR to planning her retirement. Why should love be any different? This was not how it was supposed to go. Not even close. She knew what she wanted, or at least she used to. But somewhere along the way when she wasn't paying attention, she went from wanting the shiny, neatly packaged, pasteurized, wrinkle-free, machine-washable, happily ever after version of love that she had wanted her whole life, to simply wanting him.

And now he was sitting next to her with slumped shoulders and stubble on his cheeks and a frayed hole in the knee of his blue jeans, asking her what was next for them, and she had only one answer.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't know, Mulder."

"Can I say something?" he asked.

She nodded uncertainly.

"Why don't we do this, Scully? What are we so afraid of? Why do we keep running from the one thing that seems to make sense?"

She opened and closed her mouth twice before she managed anything coherent. "What if it doesn't work?"

"What if it does?" He turned to look at her and she met his eyes, then quickly looked down because it was all just too much.

"If you walked away from it, wouldn't you always wonder?" he asked, his voice raw and honest. "I know I would."

She reached for his hand and grasped it, squeezing. Then she kissed his forehead and stood to go. It was all she had right now and he seemed to understand that, just like he understood every other little thing she didn't say.

They must have silently agreed on something. More time, she supposed. It seemed to be their passive aggressive answer to this little conundrum they'd found themselves in.

She started for the door and his voice stopped her. "I'll wait," he said quietly. "It's up to you, you know. It has been for a long time."

She left him sitting in a dark apartment with all his cards on the table and his heart on his sleeve.


	8. Chapter 8

Early through mid-April, 2000

 

When Dana Scully was twenty-seven years old, she slept with a married man. She hadn't planned to, of course, it just happened. These things sometimes do, but never to her.

Daniel Waterston was brilliant and she was young. Thirteen years younger than him, in fact. She was the kind of resident who got noticed for all the right reasons. She was highly intelligent, quick to learn, not afraid to challenge herself or others, even her superiors when the situation called for it. She didn't complain about thirty-six hour shifts or tedious paperwork. She stayed out of the gossip circles and the other residents' beds. She was confident, level-headed, professional, and industrious. And she was beautiful. Even in scrubs and a french braid with no makeup, she was girl-next-door beautiful.

Waterston had noticed her right from the start. She was different from the others, her sense of presence extending far beyond her small stature. Bold and dauntless, she was not easily intimidated  and Waterston liked that.

Before long, she was assisting him on surgeries that were usually reserved for more seasoned residents, but he wanted her. She was always two steps ahead and not afraid to question him. Other doctors might have resented her self-assurance. He thrived on it. By her third year of med school, she was working with him on clinical trials and research. They were having coffee or lunch together almost every day. She had a key to his office and knew her way around his files. She left him Post-It notes about journal articles to review. "Daniel – JAMA Nov. '85 – Patients with hypertension who undergo aortic dissection – Dana," or on another day,  "Daniel - Compare Mrs. Carson's treatment regimen with those outlined in NEJM, Aug. '88 and Dec. '89. I think we're being too conservative. – Dana."  They were on a first name basis and he knew how she liked her coffee, but he had never touched her. He stopped going to marital counseling with Barbara and started sleeping in the guest room. When he finally took off his wedding ring, she got scared and chose Pathology as a specialty. He didn't see her for five months.

Then he called her.

It wasn't like her to fall in love with a married man. Not even a man whose marriage had been failing long before she entered the picture. He was everything she always thought she wanted – profoundly intelligent, charming, stable, strong, and dedicated to his profession. She was drawn to his charisma, and his easy confidence and good looks. He told her he was filing for divorce and that it had nothing to do with her and she believed him because she wanted to. The first time they made love it was in a beach-side bed and breakfast near Ocean City, where he had taken her for the weekend. They had eaten lobster and split an eighty dollar bottle of wine and when he laid her back on the canopy bed and removed her white sundress, she had felt like a beautiful, blushing bride.

When she joined the FBI, he asked her not to go and she asked him not to follow her. Neither of them listened. And now he lay, broken and hopeful in a hospital bed, offering her all the same things he did eight years ago, all the things she still didn't have. But it wasn't enough. She wasn't the same person she once was and it took him asking for her love to make her realize that it was no longer hers to give. It belonged to someone else.

She realized for the first time in her life that sometimes the right thing isn't the thing you'd choose, but rather what chooses you. Every event, every decision, every success and tragedy in her life had somehow conspired to lead her to this exact point in time. There were no mistakes, no coincidences. John Lennon once wrote, 'Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.' She gave herself permission to join her life, already in progress. 

*************************************************************************************

Mulder had been practicing controlling his dreams since he was very young. Always an imaginative child, his dreams tended to be particularly vivid and lifelike. He started mapping out what he wanted his dreams to look like from the time he could read and write. He kept a dream journal between the mattress and box spring of his bed and each night, he wrote down in minute detail, what he wanted to dream about. Then he would close his eyes and will his subconscious to sink into the dream that he had chosen. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. In the morning he wrote down what his actual dream had been, and then set about analyzing all possible meanings and subliminal messages.

As a teenager, he varied his approach somewhat. Instead of a dream journal between his mattress and box spring, he kept several skin magazines. Before going to sleep, he'd look at the pictures, commit the images to memory, and then close his eyes and attempt to summon the woman on the page into his dream. As his skills improved, there were times when he could even wake up in the middle of a particularly titillating dream and then will himself to reenter the same dream when he fell back asleep. He hated leaving his women unsatisfied, even the imaginary ones. Again, success varied, but at the very least, it was much more entertaining than falling asleep to the radio or reading comic books. 

So it was really no surprise that when Mulder fumbled out of sleep to the sensation of his mattress shifting and a warm female body sliding between his sheets, his first reaction was to question his state of consciousness. His second was to question hers.

"Mulder, it's me," he heard her whisper, a decidedly bare shoulder brushing up against his own very bare shoulder.

"Am I dreaming?" he managed hoarsely, still flat on his back, but tilting his head on the pillow to see her face. Moonlight streamed in through his blinds and cast a bluish glow over her. She looked almost ghostlike and he wondered if he tried touching her, if his hand would find nothing but dust particles and air. He didn't risk it. If it was a dream, it was just too damn good.

His eyes scanned lower and he held his breath. She was lying on her stomach, propped up on both elbows, studying him with heavy lidded eyes. She was most certainly no longer wearing her sweater. His eyes darted down again. Or her bra. Jesus. They were like two perfect little globes, pressed down into his percale sheet. And not so little either. He had some vague idea what she had been concealing under those tailored suits. He had caught a glimpse exactly twice, but the first time their survival hung precariously in the balance and she had been barely conscious. It had seemed a bit rude to stare. The second time, it had been a very fast quid-pro-quo exchange of looks in a decon shower. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. If the chemical shower hadn't felt like thousands of tiny needles drilling into his balls, he probably would have embarrassed himself with an unabashed display of arousal. Even with the pain, it was damn close.  

He swallowed. "Are you awake, Scully?"

She nodded silently.  Two of her slender fingers traced his cheek and then brushed across his lips and lingered there. He kissed them gently and he watched her mouth fall open. Time stood still and he hardened in anticipation. It took next to nothing lately for his body to respond to hers. A sidelong glance, a tuck of the hair, a bare knee, a cold room and a snug sweater. She was in his bed now with not a stitch of clothing on.  He couldn't have stopped it even if he wanted to.

In one fluid motion, he slipped one hand under her and rolled her so she was on her back looking up at him. He leaned over her and stared into her eyes, bottomless blue, the color of midnight. He wanted to climb inside them and curl up. He kissed her instead.

Her fingers moved in his hair and her hips beneath him. His hand roamed the smooth slope of her side, inching lower at a snail's pace, until it cupped her hip and she responded with a moan, pulling back from the kiss and pressing her open mouth to his cheek. Her breath was warm and fast.

She had come naked to his bed and now she lie beneath him, soft as satin and smelling like mint tea and rain and distinctly woman. She was everything that was anything to him – all that was good and real in his life, all rolled up in a compact package of dangerous curves. He was most certainly in over his head.

"Is this...what I think it is?" he asked, his eyes volleying between hers, looking for a foothold.

"Yes," she said, her gaze not retreating.

"So that thing about um...needing more time. We're um, we're good?" he asked, searching her.

She nodded and nipped teasingly at his earlobe. "We're good."

His breathing became pants. "Because...I just want to...be...sure that...you-"

"Mulder."

"Yeah?"

"Do you always talk this much when you make love?" A smile curled on her lips.

He tilted his head, considering. "I'm not really sure. There seems to be a drought of reliable recent data."

"Well, we're going to have to work on that." The tip of her tongue followed an imaginary path around his jawline and down the slope of his neck.

"The talking or the data?"

"Both. In the meantime, shut up and get to work."

 He chuckled in surprise at her boldness and then sank his tongue deep into her mouth. He lost himself in her for what seemed like forever, but was realistically minutes before he felt her tugging not-so-subtly at his boxers, the last remaining barrier between them. He had almost forgotten about those.

There was never a graceful way to remove clothing in the throes of passion. It simply didn't exist. There should be a class on it. Socks and shoes were the worst, but at least those were already off, so he was ahead of the curve. About the only time undressing was cool was when it involved a bra and panties and he was the one performing the removal. That counted as practicing a craft and he took it most seriously.

He knelt in front of her on the mattress and tugged the waistband of his shorts down and off, getting momentarily hung up on his erection, which wagged and bobbed at her like one of those silly dunking birds.  She should have, but she didn't laugh. She did, however, wrap her small hand around him and gently caress him from root to tip while wetting her mouth. It beat out every porn video he'd ever seen and effectively erased his brain function. He pitched forward onto her, his face hovering mere millimeters from her breasts.

She wrapped two tiny strong arms around him and he nuzzled her flesh, all milky and firm and round. Mulder had been called a breast man before, and honestly, he couldn't argue the validity of that statement. He liked them. A lot. Unfortunately, 'like' fell desperately short of how he felt about hers. They were, well, flawless came to mind, but even the word itself was imperfect compared to her. There were no words. He'd have to make one up when he could think again.  

"It's a nipple," he managed, brilliantly.

She giggled. "Two, I hope."

"I've heard tell of such things."

She arched impatiently, guiding his head with fingers in his hair. "Talking again," she panted. "I can see we're going to have to keep that mouth of yours busy if we're going to get anywhere."

He could take a hint. He latched onto one puckered nipple and heard the breath release from her in one long stream. In his experience, which wasn't particularly extensive and landed somewhere between been-around-the-block and learned-all-I-know-from-the-Penthouse Forum, some women's breasts were extremely sensitive while others felt next to nothing. Mulder got his rocks off when a woman enjoyed having her breasts worshipped, because he was particularly fond of doing it.  If the pelvic gyrations and breathy little sighs, mixed with a few "oh Gods" were any clue, she was sparking like a live wire under him. Mulder went back and forth between the two and took his sweet time. He was an equal opportunity breast worshipper.

He would have taken longer, but she clearly needed more from him. Her hips were rotating underneath him and her nails were scratching his back. Her breath came hard and fast. This was a Scully he hadn't seen before and it was blowing his mind. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He went back to kissing her mouth and settled himself in the valley between her thighs. His erection nudged at her, insistently, but he held back, unsure if she was ready, needing that one last invitation from her. Unless he was completely naive, it had been almost as long for her as it had been for him – taking into account tattoos and psychotic madmen. His eyes locked onto hers and he tipped his head in question. Her gaze didn't waver and she gave a distinct nod. Then he felt her hand slip between them as she grasped and guided him.

She was wet and hot and, Holy Everything, he had almost forgotten how good this was. He slid into her and watched her jaw clench slightly.

"Stop?"

Her eyes closed and her hair moved on the pillow as she shook her head. "No. God, no. Just-just don't move for a second, okay?"

He remained as still as he could, just absorbing the feel of her all around him, clenching him. She was so small, so tight, how could this not hurt her? Her breathing was deep and regular and he could tell she was concentrating on relaxing her muscles. He sipped at the corners of her mouth gently and caressed her hip, tight against his, feeling their complete connection. God, he was all the way in her. Inside of her body.

And then she started pushing into him with her pelvis and rocking her hips. Her soft breasts pressed into his chest. "Okay," she said.

He withdrew from her and then pushed back in, several times slowly, in and out, burying his face in the slope of her neck and breathing deeply. Their rhythm was slow and steady at first and he felt time stop as he lost himself in her – the feel of her, the smell of her, her quiet sighs and moans. How many times had he imagined this? Too many to count, more so in the last few months as they became closer and it became all too clear that it was more a matter of 'when' than 'if.' And yet, all that he had imagined fell short of what he was experiencing right now. He had counted on her being heartbreakingly gorgeous as she moved under him, her full lips parted and her eyelids fluttering. He had counted on it feeling absolutely amazing, had counted on them being sexually compatible, although he'd admit to a fleeting concern or two about the irony if it ended up not being the case. But what he hadn't counted on, what was completely blowing his mind right now, was the overwhelming emotion he felt. He'd do anything for her and he hated that he couldn't give her what she wanted more than anything else.

He kissed her over and over tenderly, wanting there to be no misunderstanding about the way he felt about her, that he didn't take this lightly. That he'd move heaven and earth for her, that he couldn't imagine living even one second of the rest of his life without her in it. And there were other words too. He'd said them to her once before. He could say them again. But she knew it already, and they had always communicated best without words anyway. And right about now, their bodies seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it.

He sped up in response to her movements, her hips enthusiastically meeting him thrust for thrust. Their lips only parted to catch their breath when absolutely necessary, when their need for oxygen was greater than their need for each other. Otherwise, they kissed almost constantly. He never could have predicted this, that she'd be this passionate. It was always the conservative ones, wasn't it, he thought to himself, allowing a small chortle to escape without breaking rhythm.

"What?" she panted. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head and smiled, nipping at her upper lip. "God, nothing, Scully. Nothing could be less wrong. I just can't believe we're doing this," he chuckled. "Finally."

Her hands gently cupped the sides of his face and she gave him a peaceful, very content, all-is-right-in-the-universe smile. He wasn't sure if he'd ever seen that particular one before and he vowed to do everything in his power to make sure he saw it regularly from now on.

Their bodies moved together like they'd been doing this dance forever. Damn, how could he have ever  wondered whether they'd be good together? She brought out everything and anything good in him – why would it be any different when they made love? She made him better. Who the hell needed self-help books. She was every bit of therapy he'd ever need.

It wouldn't be long now for him. There was only so much he could do to stall himself when she was so tight around him, sinking her tongue into his mouth and wrapping her leg around his hip like that. He had wanted her far too much for far too long.

"Scully...show me," his breath came in staccato bursts and he could imagine the frenzied look on his face right now as his desire stumbled right past his self-control. "Show me...what to do for you..."

Her baby blues darted away for just a second and he was amused by her shy hesitation. "Let me get on top," she said, quietly.

Oh yeah.

He gave her one more kiss before withdrawing, rolling onto his back, and reaching for her. Graceful and lithe, she straddled him and guided him back inside her until she was sitting flush against him and rocking with her eyes closed. My God, she was incredible. His hands went to her breasts and cupped them, strumming her nipples with his thumbs. She arched into him, catlike, and began to move slowly up and down on him, setting her own languid and determined pace. He tried to relax. He wanted to watch her do this, and he'd absolutely die if he finished before she did because this was just too damn good to miss.    

They moved together and apart in perfect counterpoint and his hands left her breasts to migrate down and cup her buttocks, lifting and lowering her, aiding in her efforts. She moved faster and he folded one arm underneath his head to prop himself so he could watch their bodies collide again and again. It was one hundred percent sensory overload for him. It was watching her that did it. He was starting to lose his grip on the plateau and things were getting desperate for him down at ground zero when it suddenly hit and there was no mistaking it. Her thighs clenched around him and she let out a tiny little yelp as her body tensed and shuddered. He felt her contractions, strong and steady all around him as she rode it out. He gripped her hips tightly and let go, following her, pumping so hard up into her that both of their hips lifted off the mattress. His eyes slammed shut and he cried out before she folded down onto his chest, breasts heaving. He wrapped both arms around her and clutched her to him, kissing her throat, her mouth, every inch of her face.

The stayed like that for a few minutes, trying to regulate their breathing to one another, still joined together and kissing. His hands caressed her sides and back and he felt goose bumps form on her.

"Cold?" he whispered, pecking at her plump lower lip and nuzzling her nose.

"Mmmmm," she hummed, "a little."

He didn't want to let her go, but in order to reach the blankets, he'd have to withdraw. If he could arrange to stay inside her forever, he would, although it might make working a little complicated for both of them.

He flexed inside her and was perplexed to find himself still hard, not completely stiff, but enough for her to raise an eyebrow at him, curiously. "Didn't you?" she asked.

"Oh yes. One hundred percent yes. A lot, I think."

Another eyebrow. "Don't tell me you can....again..."

She looked genuinely worried and he laughed. "Um, no. I think, um, he's just a bit out of practice. Might take him another minute to realize it's time to pack it up for the night." He flexed again and could feel he was noticeably softer. She looked a little more relieved. "But that would be something, wouldn't it?" he smiled.

"Yeah, something," she said, with an unconvincing smile of her own. "Ouch. Impressive, but ouch. For me, anyway." She rolled off him and pulled the sheet up.

"Are you admitting you can't keep up with me, Scully?" he teased.

"I'll admit nothing of the kind," she yawned. "But it is almost..." she stretched to see over him to the blue glow of his alarm clock, "... 2:30 a.m. and we have a meeting with Skinner in exactly six and a half hours. Remember him? Big boss man? Bald with glasses? I may be wrong, but I doubt he'd accept 'all night horizontal marathon' as an acceptable reason for being late."

He pulled her to him and spooned up behind her. "Mmmm, I like the sound of that, though. Another time maybe." He kissed her shoulder and sighed.

"I should go," she said.

"What? Why would- Scully no. Stay." He held her tighter.

"It's late, Mulder. Or early. I need to shower and change before work."

"You can shower here."

"I can't go in wearing the same clothes. What would people think?"

He chuckled. "What they already think. We might as well make some people in the betting pool some money."

She flicked his upper arm with her finger. "What time is your alarm set for?"

"Seven."

"Set it for six and I'll stay."

"Okay," he agreed, kissing her neck and shoulder again.

He reset the clock, then curled up behind her and listened to her breathing until he drifted off.

When the alarm went off at 6:00, the spot beside him was already empty. He pulled the pillow she had slept on over his face and inhaled deeply, then hit the snooze three more times.

*************************************************************************************

She was there when he got to the basement office and there was hot coffee on his desk. Her eyes lifted to his and then back down so quickly he would have missed it if he hadn't been staring at her.

"Good morning, Scully. Thanks for the coffee."

"Good morning, Mulder. And you're welcome." She went back to reading a file and chewing her bottom lip.  Less than five hours of sleep and she was no worse for the wear. Hair styled and in place? Check. Impeccable makeup? Check. Black pantsuit and white blouse, unbuttoned two buttons past his threshold for distraction? Check. Situation normal.

Her just-fucked look was surprisingly similar to her business-as-usual look. Huh. He, on the other hand, had practically skipped all the way to work. A little embarrassing. He might have to dial down the swagger.

"So what's up, Scully?  Flesh-eating houseplants? Telekinetic squirrels? Mer-men? A Van Halen reunion?"

"Mer-men, Mulder?"

"Yeah. They exist. How else do you impregnate a mermaid?"

She blinked several times at him.

"They can't reproduce with human men, Scully. Their DNA patterns are incompatible."

"It worked for Ariel."

"She only married a human. I don't think they had children."

"And you know this detail because..."

"I might have seen the movie. I have a thing for redheads." He sat down and turned on his computer. "What are we meeting with Skinner about? A case?"

"It was in your email, which you never read. It's about our budget."

"What budget?"

She tried not to indulge him with a smile. "We're being audited next month and he wants us to, and I quote, 'help shed some light on why the X Files division is consistently fifty percent over budget.'"

"Fifty percent? Shit."

"I think he's going to need a little more from you than that, Mulder."

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, spinning his basketball on his finger. "It's really quite easy, Scully. They just need to give us more money."

She shook her head at him as the phone rang. "Scully," she answered, then paused to listen. "Oh-kaay, thank you." She hung up and pulled her jacket off the back of the chair, swinging it around in front of her and pulling it on. "The Assistant Director is ready for us."

Mulder stood and dribbled his basketball twice on the tile floor before tossing it into a corner and then follow her out like a petulant child.

*************************************************************************************

Skinner peered down over his glasses at a stack of paper six inches thick and clicked his pen on and off repeatedly. Scully cleared her throat and shifted in her seat uncomfortably, recrossing her legs. Her one pump dangled precariously off her foot, catching Mulder's attention. Even her ankles were beautiful. He didn't even need to see the whole leg to get aroused. Just the ankle. Jesus, did he have some kind of ankle fetish he wasn't even aware of?

She looked amazing, even prettier than usual. Sex agreed with her, which made him deliriously happy because he wanted to have a lot of it with her. A lot, a lot, a lot. Then some more. He had a whole bunch of things he'd love to do for her – things he used to do really well, if his past partners were to be believed. What if he'd forgotten how to...no, you couldn't forget how to do *that*, could you? It was probably just like riding a -- holy, was that a black bra she was wearing under her white blouse? When she slouched just right, her blouse gapped and if he leaned back discreetly, he could see a flash of black against her milky complexion. Had she done that before – the black under the white? He scanned his memory. She routinely did the black under black or even blue. He had noticed, had become quite adept at sneaking peeks when she wasn't paying attention. Hell, it wasn't like she was making it that tough lately, what with the blouses unbuttoned the top two or three. It had become a little game for him, actually -  making a point of establishing visual contact with the bra sometime before day's end.  e hgaSometimes it was more challenging, like when she'd wear one of those tight tanks or knit tops under her suit jacket. On those days, he'd have to wait patiently until she bent down to retrieve something and then hope that her top gapped in front just enough for him to catch a glimpse. He wasn't above surreptitiously planting something on the floor that she might feel compelled to bend and pick up. He'd consider himself a sick puppy if he wasn't madly in love with her, and if he didn't think that there was a solid chance that she was on to him anyway and just playing along.

This whole black under white move today went a long way toward suggesting that she might indeed be toying with him. Especially after last night. Ooooooh, last night....his mind switched gears and a parade of steamy images assaulted his cerebral cortex. Scully rotating her hips under him, her leg wrapped around his waist, panting with cheeks flushed. Scully sitting astride him, firm breasts bouncing gently, head tilted back, eyes closed. Scully crying out, making that little yelping sound that he had most definitely never heard her make before, but that he would damn well be sure she made again in the very near future.  

"....phones in four months, Mulder?"

"Agent Mulder?" Skinner's voice interrupted him as he zoned out over all things Scully.

"Sorry, Sir?"

Skinner sighed, impatiently. "I was just asking you if you could explain to me why you've requisitioned three replacement cell phones in four months?"

 "Um, well one phone was unfortunately lost during an on-foot pursuit of a suspect, Sir, and another one was, um, damaged by a high impact altercation with a zombie."

Scully was biting her lip now.

Skinner stared at him blankly. Mulder offered a nervous smile.

"That's two. What happened to the third phone, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder cleared his throat with one closed fist in front of his mouth. "It uh- it went through a washing machine. You can see there, Sir, that I paid to replace that one myself."

Another long sigh from Skinner. "What I see, Agent Mulder, is that the expenditures for the X Files division alone is sucking up nearly forty percent of my overall budget. That the travel expenses for you two agents is more than those of all the other agents under my charge combined. How do you propose I explain that to my superiors? Because I will be asked to."

"Sir, if I may-" said Scully, jumping in. "The cases handled by the X Files division can hardly be compared to the cases managed by any other division in the Bureau. And Agent Mulder and I have a solve rate that is second to none. It would be impossible to maintain that if the resources are not available to us."

Skinner shook his head slowly and removed his glasses to rub his temples. "I've been feeding them that same song and dance for years, Agent Scully. Unless you can come up with something new to dazzle the powers that be, you'd better start crunching numbers to figure out how you can cut thirty percent from your expenditures for the next quarter."

"I could try and use fewer pencils," Mulder deadpanned.

Skinner's face reddened and Scully put her fingers to her forehead and pressed. "Do you think this is a joke, Agent Mulder?"

"No, Sir. I don't. And I do think taxpayer money is being wasted. But not by the X Files division. Have you been by VCU lately? All new carpeting and ergonomically-correct office furniture. Or how about OPR? Forty-seven new computers. The ones they got rid of are ten months old. The computers Agent Scully and I are using are nearly four years old. Or how about the new Mercedes that Director Burns from the Office of Congressional Affairs has been driving lately? You might want to check into who is footing the monthly payments on that. And while you're at it, there's a certain task force within the Counterterrorism Unit that you might want to take a closer look at – specifically its fiscal connection to several adult entertainment establishments within the District. Somehow I don't think that male bonding over tequila shots and pole dancing is exactly what HR had in mind for professional development. And all this goes on while Agent Scully and I risk our lives to unmask a deeply-embedded government conspiracy that lies and murders people, and to save the world from alien colonization – all from a musty basement office with leaky windows, faulty heat, and seriously crappy furniture. And you tell me who's wasting money. Sir."

Scully's eyes were wide and her mouth hung open as both she and Skinner stared at him. You could have heard a pin drop in the room. He was either about to get fired or get his ass kicked, or both. The longer the silence went on, the more he was betting on the former.

Skinner finally moved again, straightening the paperwork in front of him and putting his glasses back on. "You're free to go now, Agents. I think that's all I need for now."

Mulder and Scully both sat for another minute, not moving until Skinner waived his hand at them. "Go. Get out of here. I've got another meeting in ten minutes and you've both got work to do."

Scully stood awkwardly and Mulder followed her toward the door.

"Oh, and Agent Mulder," he heard Skinner's voice call after him. "I'll put a requisition in to get the windows and the heat fixed."

*************************************************************************************

The elevator doors closed and her face broke into an awed smile. "Where the hell did you get that information, Mulder?"

He shrugged. "What, about VCU and OPR? Anyone can walk by and see all the new stuff."

"No, about Director Burns' Mercedes. And, um, the other...the strip clubs?" She looked down at her shoes.

"How do you think?"

"How would they have access to that kind of information?"

Mulder shot her an 'Oh please' look. "Langly could hack in and give you a raise if he wanted to. They've been keeping a running list of misappropriation of government funds for years."

"Using taxpayer dollars at strip clubs, though, Mulder?" she said in a hushed tone as they exited the elevator and headed down the hall toward their office. "That's appalling."

He unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

"The tip of the iceberg, Scully. Some of your friendly neighborhood Feds are using their per diems to pay for a whole lot more than lap dances."

She sat down, crossed her arms in front of her, and looked up at him with that classic skepticism he knew all too well. "Like who?"

Mulder drummed his fingers on his desk and glanced around casually, then grabbed a piece of paper, jotted down three names and passed it to her. "For starters."

She read them with both brows raised. "These are all married men, Mulder."

"You look surprised. Come on, Scully, you can't be that naive. Who do you think the clientele for those types of services usually are?"

She shook her head in distaste and handed the paper back to him. He bent and fed it to the shredder at his feet.

"Excuse me while I take a moment to lament the putrefaction of humanity." She sighed. "You know, my parents were married thirty-seven years. My father worshipped my mom. I just can't imagine he would have ever..."

"I'm sure he didn't," he said, to make her feel better and because it was probably true. He looked at her pointedly. "Not all men cheat."

Her eyes darted to his and she held his gaze for a moment before looking away, and he had the sudden sensation they might be talking about more than her parents' marriage. Did she really wonder those things about him? If he would be faithful to her. And where was that magical point when it was time to have that kind of conversation – about expectations, about commitment? They'd only slept together once. Normally, if his own history was anything to go on, that wouldn't constitute much expectation. But things were anything but normal for them. He had been faithful to her long before he ever had a reason to be. He couldn't imagine being with anyone else and he'd like to know she felt the same, but he wouldn't ask. Not yet anyway.

He'd had his share of relationship hang-ups, back when he actually used to have things that resembled relationships. He'd been rightly accused of being narcissistic and self-absorbed, moody and emotionally distant. And God knows he hadn't had the best example growing up. He remembered more bad years than good between his parents. But regardless of all that, he took fidelity seriously. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't a cheater.

The remainder of the morning passed uneventfully. Unless, of course, you counted a notable decrease in his already lacking concentration. Scully had somehow decided that it was as good a day as any to reorganize the top two drawers of the filing cabinet. Every time she crossed the room in front of where he sat, he could smell her perfume or lotion or shampoo. Her personal nectar. Her pheromones. He sat in his chair, in a near constant state of semi-arousal. He was grateful for loose-fitting suit pants.

His stomach growled at ten minutes to noon and he felt like doing some of that himself. As she stood with her back to him at the top drawer of the filing cabinet, he got up from his chair and leaned into her from behind, his large hands bracketing her hips.

Her breath caught in surprise. "Mulder," she warned.

"Hmmm," he purred, burying his nose behind her ear and breathing in deeply.

"We're at work," she said, but her head tilted all on its own.

"Then let's go to lunch." One of his hands crept up above her waist.

She stopped it with her own. "Mulder." Another warning, firmer this time.

He pulled back, fully hard now.

"On second thought, yes, let's go to lunch," she said, crossing to retrieve her jacket and purse. "We should talk."

Uh oh. He didn't like the sound of that. Nothing good ever came from a conversation that began with 'We should talk.' Nothing sexy, anyway.

*************************************************************************************

He sat across from her over steamed dumplings, lo mein, and a split order of chicken and broccoli. They both used chopsticks. He transferred the mushrooms onto her plate. He just couldn't eat them after the flesh-eating fungus debacle. It didn't seem to phase her. She had a pathologist's iron stomach.

"So I'll save you the breath, Scully. How about 'Mulder, last night was a lot of fun, but I've decided we should be just friends. Thanks for a good time.' Or how about 'Mulder, I don't think a physical relationship between us is going to work out after all. It would just complicate things. Let's just put last night behind us.' Or wait-wait, this is it, 'Mulder, you were an amazing lay, simply the best I've ever had, and I wish I could spend every minute in bed with you, but that level of overwhelming passion would compromise our work, so we'll need to call it quits.'"

She stopped chewing and stared at him, blank-faced.

"I'm partial to the last one. If I had to choose."

Still nothing from her, but she did manage to swallow and calmly put her chopsticks down.

"Or – you could just go with 'Mulder, you're a really nice guy, but...' or there's always the tried and true 'It's not you, it's me-'"

"Shut up," she said firmly, but quietly, not looking up.

"That's a new one."

"What makes you think I'm going to say any of those things to you?"

"Um, I've just heard them a few times. And you haven't been very...I don't know, receptive since last night. Or I guess technically early this morning, if we're splitting hairs."

"Receptive to what? You feeling me up by the filing cabinet?"

He looked at her and opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of where to go from here. Verbal communication didn't seem to be working in his favor at the moment. So he took her advice and shut up.

She sighed deeply. "Mulder, if we're going to...be involved, then I think we need to agree on some ground rules."

She was wearing her schoolteacher expression and he was pretty sure the word "agree" didn't really imply any compromise. But since it was beginning to sound like there was actually a snow ball's chance in hell that he might see her naked again, he was willing to roll over and fetch. And no, he'd never begged a woman before. But yeah, he'd beg her. Without a second thought.

She was the one he wanted. You did what you had to do.

"First of all, we have to be discreet in the office. And by discreet, I do not mean copping a feel whenever no one is looking, Mulder. I'm not your property. Please do not rub up against me while I'm at the filing cabinet, stick your tongue in my mouth while we're in the elevator, or 'accidentally' brush your hand against my breast when you're reaching past me." She made air quotes around the word 'accidentally' and pursed her lips. God, she was hot when she was worked up and all serious. This would be a whole lot easier if she wasn't so fuckable all the time.

She continued, now with more animated hand gestures. "No kissing anywhere within a block of the Hoover building, absolutely no sex when we're traveling or on assignment, and at no time should you call me Honey, Baby, Sweetheart, or any other equally nauseating pet name." She wrinkled her nose at that last part, her hand sweeping the air.

"No 'Baby' just at work or-"

"At all."

"Can I call you Dana?"

She startled and a tiny wrinkle formed between her brows. She looked like he had just asked her if he could dress up in her underwear. "Do you want to?"

"No," he smiled. "I was just checking."

A tiny sigh of relief from her. "I'm just saying that I think we need to be mature about this, don't you agree?"

He nodded, his attention darting between her eyes and the edge of her mouth where she had a smear of duck sauce.

"We need to keep it all in perspective and not allow our personal lives to get in the way of our work, you know?"

More nodding. "Absolutely. Mature," he said. That duck sauce was really bugging him. She couldn't launch a persuasive argument with duck sauce on her cheek. She looked like a five-year-old. He stifled a laugh and covered the bottom half of his face with his napkin.

"We're two reasonable adults and I think if we handle this responsibly, then- Mulder, what the hell is the matter with you?" She frowned.

"Um, you have a little bit of..." he pointed to her cheek, smirking.

She swiped at it with her napkin, still frowning. "Did I get it?"

"No, it's actually a little more to your...come here, lean forward."

She did and he reached and gently wiped the sauce off of her with his napkin. "Thank you," she said, leaning back, her face softening into a half smile, her eyes still lingering on his.

"Is there anything else?"

"Hm?" she asked, distractedly.

"Any other rules we need to establish?"

"Um, I-I-" Her voice was breathy and her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips. "I think that's it."

"Okay then. Are you going to eat that?" He pointed to the last dumpling.

*************************************************************************************

He opened the car door for her, hoping that was still on the list of approved conduct. She got in without decking him, so apparently yes.

He started the car up and sat there for a minute, still in park, both hands on the wheel. "Scully?"

"Yeah?" Her head swiveled toward him.

"How far are we from work?"

She looked confused. "I don't know. A mile and a half, maybe?"

"So that's...further than a block away, then, right?"

Her cheeks pinked and the edges of her mouth turned up. "Yes. Yes, I'd say that's correct."

He leaned over and kissed her, hesitantly at first, then more firmly as he felt her relax into the kiss. Her mouth moved under his, all soft and salty from their Chinese lunch. His tongue swept her bottom lip and she reciprocated, just a little, a wet tickle, nothing more than a tease. He had just watched her reapply her lipstick in a small compact after they finished eating. Now he was wearing it too. Estee Lauder, Cafe Latte was the color. Yes, he knew her favorite shade of lipstick. It was the one in the black and gold case. The green one was Pink Chocolate by Clinique, but she only wore that in the winter.

The kiss lingered and she squeezed his forearm affectionately. When they finally did part, she kept her eyes closed for a few seconds after he opened his. She looked like a china doll – porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and long lashes fanned out. He'd love to just stare at her all day, but it probably didn't pay well enough to support himself.

He cupped the back of her neck gently and their foreheads met. "So you don't regret last night, then?" he asked, needing the reassurance.

She shook her head. "I don't regret one minute of it. Last night was amazing." A demure smile played on her lips.

"I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who thinks so. Please tell me we can do it again sometime." His fingers played in her hair, sifting through slick russet strands, cool to the touch.

She planted another kiss at the edge of his mouth. "I'd like that." Then another kiss, and another.

"Do you want to come over tonight?" he asked, giving up completely on playing it cool and reconciling himself to sounding like a moony teenager.

"I have to do my laundry."

"Or I could come to your place."

She hesitated for a long beat. "Mmm, another night," she said, still kissing him.

He pulled back and studied her. Her head dipped apologetically, but she squeezed his hand and he understood without her having to say it. This needed to go at her pace. Now that they had crossed that line, there was an underlying subtext to their off-duty activities. She'd be wondering about his expectation every time he stopped by her apartment. He loved just hanging out with her and doing nothing -  lying on her floor and waxing poetic over 60s song lyrics, vegging out in front of a Godfather marathon on a Sunday afternoon in their sweats and listening to her say, "Leave the gun, take the cannoli" in her best Clemenza voice. Doing paperwork on Friday nights with a bag of M&Ms. Watching her divide the colors into groups and eat them in ascending order of preference – brown first, then orange, yellow, green, red, and finally blue last because they were her favorite. He still wanted all of that.

He patted her hand and put the car in drive. "Maybe we could go see a movie or something this weekend."

She smiled and then flipped down the visor to reapply her lipstick. "I'd like that."

*************************************************************************************

The next two weeks flew by with no more than a few stolen kisses, all more than a block from work, and a light groping session in the doorway of his apartment. There were also two movies in the theatre with shared popcorn and diet soda with only one straw, eight lunches together, one pizza after work, two mid-day walks outside in which she allowed hand-holding, and seven bedtime phone calls, but who was counting?

On a Wednesday afternoon when she was wearing his favorite sky blue blouse and black skirt (the one with the slit on the side instead of the back), he crossed the room and deposited a folded note in her  lap and then left for a restroom break. The note read: "Have dinner with me this Friday night. Linen tablecloths, a wine list, and a confusing arrangement of silverware, all promised."

While standing in front of a urinal, he second-guessed his approach. The idea of passing a note had seemed whimsical and romantic, but she might just see it as juvenile and unimaginative. He had considered sending her flowers with the dinner invite on a card, but that just seemed like he was trying too hard. He had never been good at this sort of thing. Dating, courtship, wooing a woman, whatever you wanted to call it. He was a master at turning on the charm and sparking their interest, and he was pretty sure he wasn't bad in the sack. It was all that other cursory stuff that eluded him – the fancy dates, the flowers, birthdays, Valentine's Day, putting the toilet seat down and actually remembering to call more than once every four days.

But the good news was that, over the course of seven years, Scully pretty much knew all that about him and for some insane reason, she seemed to want him anyway. She'd gotten the Apollo keychain and the baseball lessons for her birthdays. She knew he spit sunflower seeds into the cup holder of his car, squeezed the Crest from the middle, watched porn, only had about three things in his refrigerator at any given time, disappeared for days without calling whenever the mood struck, and had never, ever taken her to a decent restaurant. He'd really like the chance to remedy that last thing, though, if she'd let him.

When he got back to his desk, she had stepped out of the office, but her jacket was still on the back of her chair. There was a folded up paper on his desk blotter. He opened it. It was the same paper he had given to her. Underneath his question, she had written the words "yes" and "no" with boxes next to each. There was a check mark in the "yes" box. Off to the side, she had also drawn a heart with an arrow piercing it, just like one you might see carved into a tree. Inside the heart she had written, "D.S. + F.M." He grinned and tucked the paper into his shirt pocket, then began scanning the internet for restaurant reviews. Score one for passing notes in class.

*************************************************************************************

Scully stood at her open closet wearing a towel on her head and not a stitch more. She waded through a sea of black and navy suits to pull two dresses out from the back and toss them onto the bed. The mulberry colored one slid from the comforter to pool on the floor. Maybe that was a sign she wasn't supposed to wear that one. Maybe it was a sign that she should start believing in signs.

She picked up the slate blue dress and held it in front of her at the full-length mirror, then tossed it back onto the bed and did the same with the black one she had just bought last night in anticipation of tonight, but was now second-guessing the hemline on. Yes, she had actually gone shopping for a new dress for her date. When was the last time she had done that? When was the last time she had gotten ready for a date? Shaving her legs all the way up to the hip – twice just to be extra smooth. She had even spent time grooming other places that were just starting to have a dull recollection of what it was like to be touched by hands other than her own. New razor, shaving gel, and lotion afterward. She was out of practice at this. She didn't remember it taking this much effort to get properly laid.

She had also bought new underwear, new lipstick, and a small handbag. She had tried on four pairs of black heels, but ended up passing on them. She owned no less than a dozen pairs of black heels already. Surely another would have been overindulgent. Plus, she was cursed with expensive taste in shoes and her rent was due next week. Her Mastercard thanked her.

Pulling the new black dress of its hanger, she unzipped it and shimmied it up over her hips and pulled the straps onto her shoulders, zipping it almost all the way up the back, not bothering with the new bra yet. She always wore a bra unless she was cleaning the apartment or staying home all day, even though she could get away without one in a pinch.  She still had most of her muscle tone in her breasts. Not bad for thirty-six years old. Part of it was good genes, part was her modest size, and part was the fact that she hadn't had any children, but she tried not to think about that because it would only serve to depress her for the remainder of the evening. She would have traded perky boobs for a nursing baby at her breast in a heartbeat.

She appraised the new dress critically in the mirror. It was solid black, sleeveless, and several inches shorter than anything else in her closet. It accentuated her small waist and hugged her hips and the sales woman had talked her into it, proclaiming her confidence in Scully's ability to "rock a dress like this with a figure like hers."  She turned to the side and examined her profile, smoothing her hand over her abdomen, then spun to check out her image from behind and sighed. Well, it passed the thigh test anyway. If she obsessed over any part of her body at all, it was always her thighs. This dress seemed to be doing her thighs a favor, so she decided what the hell. You couldn't go wrong with a little black dress. She slipped it off and padded into the bathroom to blow dry her hair.

Her doorbell rang at 7:02. He was on time. That was something new, she smiled to herself, glancing through the peephole to see an expectant Mulder rocking back and forth on his heels wearing a different suit than the one he'd worn to work that day. He had changed for their date. She didn't know why that tickled her, but it did. The effort maybe. Nice to know she wasn't the only one who primped.

She took a deep breath and swung the door open.

"Hi," she said. It seemed like the place to start.

His eyes raked over her leisurely, taking his time. She shifted in her sling-back pumps and crossed her arms in front of her self-consciously, clearing her throat.

"You look incredible, Scully. New dress?"

She evaded his gaze and turned to walk toward the kitchen where she'd left her clutch. "This? Oh, you know...where are we going?" she asked, avoiding his question.

"Pas'cal's. 7:30 reservation."

She paused, masking her pleasant surprise. Pas'cal's was nice. Really, really nice. And not some place you'd likely get a reservation for a Friday night by calling two days ahead of time.

"Have you been?" he asked.

"Once. A long time ago," with Jack, she didn't bother to add. "It's lovely. How'd you manage it?"

"My neighbor on the ground floor, the college student? Turns out she moonlights as a hostess there. I gave her slacker boyfriend's VW bus a jump on two separate occasions last winter. I cashed in a favor. I just have to pretend to be Senator Harvey and you're my very pregnant mistress. We'll just take a throw pillow from the couch here and..." he reached for one of the pillows, then laughed when he saw her expression. "I'm just kidding, Scully."  

She huffed out a relieved laugh and shook her head at him. This was Mulder trying. He had gone out of his way to pull some strings and get a last minute reservation at one of the nicest, not to mention priciest, restaurants in the District. Freshly shaven, pressed suit, shiny shoes, one of his least gaudy ties, showing up on-time at her door to take her out. He was turning on the charm for her and it was working. But what she appreciated the most was that it was still her Mulder, her best friend, and he could always make her laugh.

How do you know when you've truly got it bad, Dana? When you're starving and you've got a handsome man at your door ready to take you to Pas'cal's, and all you can think about is how long before dinner's over and that expensive Armani suit hits the floor of your bedroom. Hoo boy.

*************************************************************************************

They split a bottle of Pinot – he let her pick. And there were indeed linen tablecloths and more pieces of silverware than any reasonable person needed to enjoy a meal. And candlelight and fresh flowers and live piano music that consisted of wordless renditions of songs by Billy Joel and James Taylor and Bette Midler. And far more swank than Scully had been treated to in a very long time. There were no prices on the menu, so she ordered conservatively -  a chicken and pasta dish, but he gave her a quizzical look.

"Try something seafood, Scully. It's your favorite and it's their specialty." The waiter nodded to indicate that yes indeed, it was. So she switched to scallops over angel hair while Mulder went with filet mignon. She had no idea who was paying for this and she didn't mind going Dutch, but it would have been nice to know ahead of time. She only had about fifty bucks on her. Etiquette dictated that if he invited her, then he paid for it. But it was the twenty-first century now and the last time she had been on a proper date, Monica Lewinsky still had a clean dress and every girl wanted a Rachel haircut. It had been awhile and things changed. Adjusted for inflation, this was going to be one hell of a pricey date. Her mother had warned her about men who treated her to expensive dinners. They were only after one thing. Too bad her mother hadn't mentioned what to do when she was also interested in the one thing. Catholic girls weren't supposed to want it. The thoughts she was currently having at the moment, sitting across from Mulder -  she didn't think a couple of Hail Marys were going to cover it.

Once upon a time, she had supposedly learned everything she needed to know about dating from Missy, which included: don't order anything with broccoli because it's gassy, proper posture makes your boobs looks bigger, and the guy usually brings the condoms. She had found out the hard way that the last one wasn't very reliable.

In any case, she tucked her hair and sat up a little straighter.

To her relief, they fell into a pattern of comfortable conversation during dinner and she was quickly able to get past her sort-of-but-not-really-first-official-date vertigo. They played a game while they ate – one of their favorites. Mulder picked out a table near them and Scully had to study the people who sat there and tell him what she thought their "story" was. What was the relationship between the people and what were they doing there? They took turns, dazzling one another with their intuitive skills and sharing friendly disagreements over one another's conclusions. It shouldn't have surprised her that, as a former profiler, Mulder loved this game.

He eyed a table to Scully's left and raised a brow at her. "Two couples to your three o'clock smiling like they're in a Sears portrait. What's their story?"

Scully popped half a scallop into her mouth and glanced over surreptitiously. She chewed and swallowed, thinking. "The younger couple just got engaged. They live far away, but she's from here and those are her parents. She's introducing them to her fiance for the first time. Daddy doesn't like him."

Mulder smiled. "How can you tell?"

"His jaw is tight and he just noticed his future son-in-law put his hand on his baby girl's bare knee. Also, the parents have money and they think their daughter can do better."

Mulder made a "come on" gesture with his hand to indicate he wanted elaboration.

"The fiance is wearing a mismatched and ill-fitting suit. The grey in the pants is just slightly darker than that in the jacket. The parents think he can't afford anything better. Also, the girl's engagement diamond is on the small side – half a carat at best, while Daddy... Daddy is wearing a Rolex and Mom is wearing Chanel pumps."

"Not bad," he said with a tilt of his head and a click of his tongue. "Your turn to pick."

Her eyes darted around discreetly until she landed on a couple several tables away. "There," she nodded with her head. "Older man, balding. Woman in the red dress."

Mulder took stock of them, then drained his wine glass and refilled it after topping off hers. "Birthday."

"Not anniversary?" she asked. "They're both wearing wedding bands."

He shook his head. "Birthday. His."

"Based on what?"

"A hunch."

"Says the FBI's former star profiler," she smiled, teasingly. "Gee, I never realized it was such a technical process."

"Profiling is twenty percent science and eighty percent plain old gut instinct."

"Well, I say anniversary." She twirled angel hair onto her fork.

He shook his head. "You're wrong. Birthday. And it's his because she looks happier than he does. She brought him here; he would have rather have ignored his birthday. She wanted to throw him a party, but he refused. This was a compromise." He finished the last bite of his filet and placed his fork and knife at the three o'clock position. "Okay Scully, over there. Young couple to your five o'clock. Pretty blonde."

Scully pursed her lips at that and swiveled her head. She watched the waiter approach the table in question and deliver their food. She continued observing for a few more stolen moments before looking down intently at the remainder of her meal and picking at her last scallop. "She's pregnant. He doesn't know yet. She's planning to tell him tonight."

Mulder was quiet and his face sobered. Scully continued. "She isn't drinking any wine, but there's a whole bottle at the table. He ordered it, thinking she'd share. When the waiter went to place her dinner on the table, he accidentally touched the edge of the plate to her ...her breast and she winced. They're sore. And if you watch closely, every once in awhile she places one palm to her lower abdomen. They're young, twenty-five, maybe. This is their first baby, hence the expensive restaurant. News of second and third babies get delivered over rushed coffee in the morning or while folding laundry and wiping runny noses. Sometimes after making love."

Mulder opened and closed his mouth twice, but couldn't come up with anything to say. She knew he was silently cursing his choice of tables for her to profile, but she wanted to tell him it was okay. It wasn't the first time she'd encountered a pregnant woman and it certainly wouldn't be the last. In fact, it seemed like they were everywhere she looked since her failed IVF attempt. Ten months later, it was still a fresh wound, but it would eventually heal and she'd learn to live with the disappointment. She didn't have a choice.  

Mulder was just starting to reach for her hand when their waiter came to remove their empty dishes and place dessert menus in their hands. They were both thankful for the interruption. They agreed to split something and were negotiating between the cheesecake (his pick) and the tiramisu (hers) when a large piece of cake with a candle was placed in front of the debated birthday/anniversary gentleman. The woman with him clapped her hands jubilantly. Mulder smiled in vindication.

"You're good," she said.

"Eh – I got lucky. It could just as well have been an anniversary." The waiter returned to their table. "We'll split the tiramisu," said Mulder.

Later, when the bill came, Scully reached for her purse while Mulder pulled out his credit card. "What are you doing, Scully? I asked you out. I'm getting this." She let him be chivalrous. 

"So Scully, what, um, what do you think other people would say if they profiled us?"

Wow. She found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Her brows arched and she fingered the stem of her wine glass.

"Because I have an idea," he hedged. "They'd think 'that guy is waaaay out of his league.'"

Her eyes darted to his, then retreated and she flushed. "Mulder, that's not true."

He chuckled. "Oh, it is. It definitely is. But as long as you don't figure that out, we're okay."

Her breath hitched and she moistened her lips and blinked slowly at him as she did the math. Five minutes for the valet to get the car, ten to her apartment if they didn't hit any red lights – but hell, let's just run them – seven more to walk into her building, ride the elevator up to her floor and make it to her front door, three more to unlock the door, factoring in dropping the keys once. She could have him in her bedroom and be tearing at that Armani suit in under thirty minutes.

*************************************************************************************

On the way to her apartment, she made the very uncharacteristic decision to be bold about what she needed tonight. After their first time together two weeks ago, he had allowed her to pilot the relationship, being respectful and patient with her, holding back even when she could plainly see the desire in his eyes – and other places. She had enjoyed the flirting, the build-up, the slow and steady burn. But sometimes a girl just needed to get some, and that time was now. God, she had almost forgotten what this felt like – desperately wanting a man's hands on her body, needing to feel him inside her. This was simple desire, stripped down to its most base level. She was horny, and the thought almost made her snicker out loud. She must have made an audible sound because Mulder glanced over at her in the passenger seat. She coughed and shifted and her dress rode higher on her thighs, a development that wasn't lost on Mulder, if the bobbing of his Adam's apple was any indication. He snuck several glances and the car drifted. He mumbled an apology and redirected his attention to the road.

Seduction was an art, and one that, once upon a time, she wasn't half bad at. It seemed to be coming back to her in bits and pieces, directed more by her body than her brain.

Mulder pulled the car up in front of her apartment building and put it in park. She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned toward him slightly. "Do you want to come in for awhile?" she asked, her voice dark and low and full of promise.

His eyelids seemed to be weighted down and his lips were parted. "I-I-I could do that," he managed.

Her hand drifted to his leg and he felt hot against her palm. "Good," she said.

"Okay."

This was not the most brilliant conversation they'd ever had.

Neither of them moved, while condensation started to form on the inside of the windows. She had sudden and sobering doubts that they'd even make it into her apartment if she didn't remove her hand from his thigh and get him moving soon. He looked like a lion about to pounce. She wasn't opposed to an occasional tryst in an interesting location. She and a boyfriend had once done it in the stacks of the library as seniors in undergrad, and she had performed oral sex in the back of a movie theatre once before. But somehow, banging in his fogged-up car, ten feet from her apartment building seemed just a little too desperate.

"Let's go then?" she asked.

"Okay." The car idled on. His eyes were trained on her full bottom lip, clearly stuck. An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion, unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. She was used to solving problems with science. She leaned closer until her lips nearly brushed his and she twisted the keys in the ignition off, then removed and dangled them in front of his face. He snapped out of his love-struck puppy time warp and smiled at her, snapping up the keys.

It wasn't the fastest she'd ever managed to get up to her apartment. That one day when she'd drank a 32-ounce iced tea on her way home from work and then got stuck in the Beltway rush hour garnered that award, but this was a close second.  

Once her door was closed, he was on her. She dropped her keys and purse on the floor right where she stood and threw both arms around his neck. Large hands clutched at her back, her waist, her breasts, her ass, in the dark. He tripped over her briefcase that she had left by the door earlier and she giggled into his mouth as he momentarily lost his balance and pushed her up against the wall.

"Light," he gasped. "Before I break my neck."

 

She stretched and twisted the knob on the entryway lamp, managing to keep her lips connected to his. A sixty watt bulb sprang to life and cast a warm yellowish glow around her living room. She slid his suit jacket off and down his shoulders and flung it somewhere in the direction of her couch, hearing the whoosh of fabric hitting something that clattered. Not her couch. A picture frame? Fuck. She'd like to care, but her fingers were already tangled in the knot of his tie, yanking and tugging until it too went the way of the jacket. Tiny shirt buttons were next and she was on number five or six when he finally dialed in and realized she was dusting him in the clothing removal category. His fingers fumbled clumsily at the back hidden zipper of her dress for several long seconds before he groaned in frustration and dipped down to her hemline, tugging the dress up and over her hips. When her panties were finally exposed, he pulled the crotch to one side and slid two fingers into her, causing her hips to buck against his hand in surprise and her mouth to utter one long breathy "Mulderrrr."

His fingers made several slow passes over her clitoris before he withdrew, wrapping his arms around her body and lifting her by the buttocks until she was pinned between him and the wall. She circled his hips with her strong legs and pulled his dress shirt off, then his undershirt until her hands were sweeping over his chest, tangling in the sparse hair. He ground his erection into her, kneading her buttocks and sliding his tongue against hers. She felt light-headed and dizzy and there just didn't seem to be enough oxygen to go around.

"God, what got into you?" he mumbled as she nipped at his bottom lip. "You really need to eat seafood more often."

She smiled and pulled his lips back down to hers. He continued in a steady dry hump. It had been years and years since she'd been this worked up with clothing still on. Layers between them and still, the tip of his cock felt like a knife drilling into her.   "Right here?" he swallowed, his eyes a swirl of green and gold. God, she wanted babies that had those eyes. Don't fall apart now, Dana. Just don't. Nothing killed the mood faster than a sobbing woman.

She refocused and went for his belt buckle, whispering "Bedroom" and then planting the flat of her tongue to his throat. He carried her all the way there, stumbling again, this time over a pair of heels she  had left abandoned on the floor at the foot of her bed. They fell back onto the comforter, his arm catching his weight before he pinned her. "Scully, you need to stop leaving shit on the floor if we're going to keep doing this." She giggled and swept the belt from his pants in one long yank.

He had her underwear off and his pants pooled at his ankles within seconds. She felt him enter her in one long drive, her body accepting him without protest. She was so wet that there was no pain, only intense need as she bucked under him. It was hard and fast and frantic and loud – very, very loud. Not him, but her. God, she'd never been loud before. Ever. But she couldn't stop herself, crying out as he drove into her relentlessly. She came hard, arcing against the mattress, her muscles tightening all around him as he finished only several strokes behind her. He dragged himself off her, collapsing in a heap to her side, their chests rising and falling in tandem.

"That was crazy," he panted. "Please tell me I didn't hurt you. I'm sorry, Scully, I thought I would last longer."

"You didn't hurt me. Quite the opposite, I'd say." She scooted closer to him.

He was sprawled out on his back, wearing only his dark socks and she lay next to him, her new dress bunched around her waist, naked from there down. Was it wrong that she was thinking about her good comforter as she felt a trickle on her inner thigh?

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you please grab me the tissues on the nightstand?"

She heard a rustling and then felt his hand swiping at her, cleaning her. "Sorry about the mess," he whispered. "I'll probably always be the one saying that – in the bed and out." She chuckled and took the tissues from him, finishing the job. Then she excused herself to the bathroom for more extensive clean up.

When she came back out wearing a silk robe, he was sitting up on the edge of her bed, still nude. The room was dark, but she could make out his shadow. "Hey," he said, reaching for her hand.

"Hey." She went to him. "Thanks for dinner."

He huffed out a laugh, then grew silent for a moment as his fingertip circled the back of her hand tenderly. "You didn't think you owed...because of dinner?"

She rubbed his shoulder affectionately with her free hand. "No, of course not. I wanted it as much as you did."

"I'm not sure that's possible, but I'm glad you think so."

She smiled in the dark and peeled back the covers to get in the bed, tugging his hand. "If you want me to take off, it's okay," he said, tentatively.

"Not unless you keep talking," she yawned, removing her robe and sinking into the sheets.

He peeled off his socks and climbed in naked next to her, molding his body to hers.

*************************************************************************************

She woke in the predawn light to the sensation of something wet brushing her inner thigh. She startled and lifted the covers to see the top of his head about halfway down on the bed, hovering over her. "Oh God Mulder, what are you doing?"

She heard a muffled reply, "Woke up and couldn't fall back asleep," then, his tongue reconnected with her skin, inching its way up to the apex of her hip and thigh and tracing the crease there. She tensed and he felt the change. His head popped up and he maneuvered himself back up the bed to kiss her mouth. "You don't like it, Scully?"

"It's not that. I just don't think most men enjoy...doing it." She felt her cheeks burn.

He pulled back to look in her eyes and she saw a touch of mischief there. "Scully, you have been with entirely the wrong men then. In my opinion, it should qualify as a food group."

She wrinkled her nose and clicked her tongue in disapproval at his vulgarity, but then laughed despite herself.

"Please?" He sucked on one nipple as her hand sifted through his messy bed hair. "Pretty, pretty please?"

"Well, if you must," she smiled demurely. He knelt above her for a moment, arcing the blankets up over his head, and went down.

Before the first ray of sunlight came filtering through her blinds, she was flowing like molten lava and giving her neighbors something to listen to for the second time in six hours. She hoped the new couple with the loose headboard was trying to sleep in.


	9. Chapter 9

End of April, 2000

 

The limousine cornered a little fast and Scully slid over grey leather seats until her hip rested tight against his own. Mulder was vaguely cognizant of bright lights from the neon world outside bouncing off the window glare and launching prisms around the interior of the vehicle. Scully's bare knee had white polka dots of light on it and he wanted to play connect-the-dots with his fingertips. They pulled up to a stoplight and Mulder stretched to crank open the moon roof, loud bass from the vehicle stopped next to theirs suddenly cutting in, as well as honking horns and a siren somewhere in the distance. He stood and stuck the tip of his head out the moon roof like a prairie dog. The street sign read Sunset Boulevard and a salty breeze ruffled his hair. Scully tugged him back down with handfuls of his tuxedo jacket, muttering something about safety and conduct befitting a federal agent.

Their driver looked exactly like George Carlin and Mulder wondered if he knew the Seven Dirty Words routine. When they saw that his name tag read Carl, he and Scully laughed until Scully had to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes to keep her mascara from running. It really wasn't all that humorous, but somehow over the course of the last two days, they had both adopted that West coast stoned-on-life attitude that made everything seem just a little funnier. He had never seen Scully this easy-going before. She wore Ray-Bans everywhere and snapped her gum. She was late to meet him for lunch yesterday because she had treated herself to a Swedish massage. Last night when he knocked on her hotel room door, she had been raiding the mini bar and watching VH1.   

Mulder popped open the cherry cupboard door to the bar and whistled, pulling out two bottles and handing her one, then opening the refrigerator to peruse the multitude of beverage choices there. "How come we always get drunk in California, Scully?"

"We're not getting drunk. We have a 10 a.m. flight home tomorrow."

"Speak for yourself. Our life's work has just inspired the worst movie of all time. I'm drinking. Vodka, rum, or champagne?"

She tossed him her disapproving librarian look, which was much less effective when she was wearing a cute little sparkly headband and had just let him snake his hand up her dress not ten minutes before. "Rum. Champagne makes me really, really...never mind," she giggled.

"Champagne, it is."

 He poured two generous glasses, raised his, and then paused, brows knit in contemplation. Wow, so much to toast. How could he choose just one thing? Historically a glass-half-empty kind of guy, lately he had been wondering if what he thought really mattered was what really mattered.

"To...the truth?" she offered, and his heart broke just a little because there she was – always right there with him through thick and thin, always wanting what he wanted, making his goddamn quest her own at all costs.

And he shook his head. No. Not tonight. "To us," he said simply, and she clinked glasses with him and sipped, her eyes big and blue, wet and trusting. He loved her. He loved her and he was really such an idiot sometimes.

She barely had her swallow gone when he kissed her, thinking that there could be nothing better in life than the taste of her, and at thirty-eight, he had some serious catching up to do.

She pulled back first and he pitched forward, his lips still pursuing hers like a magnetic force, his eyes closed. He heard her giggle and she steadied his champagne flute with her hand. "Where are we going, Mulder? Because so far, your instructions to Carl to 'just drive around' have resulted in some pretty serious neglect of this fine piece of plastic."   She held the gold Bureau credit card between two manicured fingers like a lit cigarette.

Mulder slid the privacy window open and leaned in. "Hey Carl, take us to swankiest restaurant in town."

Carl eyed them through the rearview mirror and smiled, tolerantly. "Uh, Sir? It's 8:30 on a Saturday night and you don't have a reservation."

Right. So much for being suave. He scratched his head, thoughtfully. "Well, then take us to the nicest joint we can get into at the last minute on a Saturday night without a reservation."

"Might I make a recommendation, Sir?"

Mulder made a sweeping 'by all means' gesture with his hand that he hoped looked confident.

"If you're looking for a nice atmosphere, great food, and ...a little privacy," Carl cleared his throat, "there are some wonderful little fresh seafood places down along the waterfront. Perhaps a drive along the Pacific Coast Highway afterward and a moonlit walk on the beach?"

Mulder nodded and smiled, pointing a finger at Carl and making a decisive clicking sound with his tongue. "Or that. You're brilliant, Carl. Does anyone ever tell you that?"

Carl smiled, keeping his eyes trained on the road. "All the time, Sir."

Mulder closed the privacy panel again and tried to pick up where he left off with Scully, trailing open mouthed kisses down the slender slope of her neck while tracing light circles on her bare knee cap. In true Scully form, all reluctance and modesty, she pressed a tiny, but strong hand to the center of his chest and pulled back with that tight-lipped smile that could mean seventy different things.   

Okay, he smiled. He could wait. Seven years of it had trained him well.

*************************************************************************************

Scully quirked a disapproving eyebrow as the waiter deposited the dinner bill next to Mulder's water glass. "Why do they do that?"

"Do what?" Mulder asked, knowing full well what she would say next, but waiting for her predictable liturgy.

"Automatically assume that the man is paying the bill." She fingered through her clutch for the Bureau credit card that had been in her possession all evening. "It's the twenty-first century. What  - like it's not possible that *I* might be taking *you* out to dinner? That I might actually have a career and money of my own? Is he covertly suggesting that it's not acceptable for a woman to ask a man on a date and pay for it? Would that somehow upset the greater universal balance of male and female gender roles in society and lead to the pathological disintegration of –of-of..." she paused, mid-rant. "What, Mulder? Why are you looking at me like that?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I'm not. I just think...that he's probably a twenty-year-old student, waiting tables to put himself through acting school. I'm guessing he didn't give much thought to how the exact placement of the bill on the table might be interpreted as a statement of support for patriarchal stereotypes. But if it would make you feel better, I can pull him aside and let him know you can vote now."

The corner of her mouth curved up and he felt her foot step on his under the table. Then her gaze dropped to the bill. "How much damage?" she asked.

He slid it toward her so she could see. She smiled and nodded approvingly. "Now that's a respectable dent."

"What do you suppose the limit on this thing is?"

"I have no idea, Mulder, but we're not going to find out."

"You're no fun," he pouted.

Her head cocked playfully, a coy smile planted on her plump, merlot-stained lips. "Are you sure about that?" He nearly jumped at the sensation of a bare foot creeping up the inside of his pant leg.

 *************************************************************************************

"How old were you when you learned to swim, Scully?"

They had both kicked off their shoes and he was proceeding to bury her tiny feet under mounds of damp sand. "Don't wiggle, you're messing it up," he said, adding more handfuls and patting it down firmly and smoothly.

She took another swallow of the champagne directly from the bottle and passed it to him. He did the same and passed it back. Two teenagers screeched and laughed, chasing each other drunkenly about fifty yards from them, and a couple of night surfers paddled out toward the horizon, waiting for the next big wave. Otherwise, they were alone. It was a full moon and the air was salty and cool. She wore his suit jacket draped over her bare shoulders.

"Young," she said. "I'm not sure exactly. Maybe four. You?"

"Not until I was nine. I went to sleep-away camp for the first time and we had to pass a swim test by the end of the summer. I had to take it four times."

She huffed out a quiet, sympathetic laugh. "You're a great swimmer now."

"About the time I turned twelve or thirteen, I started spending every minute of my summers on the beach in the Vineyard. I even took up surfing for awhile."

"Why the sudden interest?"

He chuckled. "One guess. Prime motivator of every heterosexual pubescent male."

She smiled and nodded, understandingly. "Girls."

"Girls in bikinis, specifically."

She bumped shoulders flirtatiously with him. "So who was your first girlfriend?"

His eyes narrowed in thought. "You mean, the first one who actually liked me back?"

She giggled. "Yeah." Another giggle into the mouth of the champagne bottle as it tipped back, nearly empty now.

"Corinne Meyers."

"One of your beach groupies?"

"Nope. Eighth grade science fair partner. She had braces and was three inches taller than me."

Scully frowned. "Was she an amazon?"

"I hit my growth spurt late."

"I still haven't hit mine," she sighed, and they shared a chuckle at that. "What did you make?"

"Huh?"

"For the science fair? What was your project – an erupting volcano?"

He smiled. "A launching rocket."

"Ah, yes, of course."

"What about you? Who was your first?"

Both her brows went to her hairline and she cleared her throat as her eyes shifted down and away. "Just what are you asking, Mulder?"

"Just what will you tell me, Scully?"

She wiggled her bare feet free from their sandy grave and stood, tugging on his hand and shucking his jacket. "Let's walk."

He let her lead him closer to the water, to where the surf drifted up onto the sand, wetting their feet and leaving foam between their toes. One of her hands tangled with his, their fingers laced casually. The other held the tip if the champagne bottle between her middle and third finger. They walked.

"So I tell you about the eighth grade love of my life and I don't even get a name in return?" he hedged.

"I didn't date until I was sixteen – Captain's orders," she smiled. "My first boyfriend was David Markley. He had a car and he was Protestant. My parents did not approve."

Her fingers twisted gently in his as they walked, the swaying of her hips making him dizzy in a good way. She offered him the bottle and he took it and drank, handing it back. "Finish it off," he said. She did.

"Did his car have a big back seat?"

She smirked. "I don't remember."

"Liar."

She sighed deeply and pitched her head back to the star-littered sky, her gait swaying in contentment and mild inebriation. "God, it's sooo beautiful here." Her voice had taken on that rasp that he loved so much. The one she had sometimes when he called her right before she went to sleep. A wave of pure lust assaulted his senses and in one swift turn and reach, he had her flush against him. The empty bottle dropped soundlessly into the sand and two arms went around his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.

And he kissed her on the beach, in the surf, in the moonlight, and he felt like they could have been pictured on the outside of a box of condoms or something. Frankly, he wouldn't have been at all surprised to see fireworks or hear Marvin Gaye music playing. Not even the romantically-challenged, such as himself, could screw this moment up.

When their lips finally parted, he looked deeply into her enchanting baby blues and said...."You're really hot."

Good, Mulder. That's good. The Ph.D. was really coming in handy.

She suppressed a giggle and nodded her head, biting her bottom lip. "That's really....wow. Thank you."

"Oh, you like that, do you?" He tilted his head, feigning a dreamy look. "I can sing some Lionel Ritchie, if you want, Baby."

They both erupted into quiet chuckles, her head falling forward to rest on his chest, shoulders shaking  with her laughter. When they finally composed themselves, Scully rubbed both of his upper arms affectionately with her hands and offered him her best Mona Lisa smile. "Let's go back to the hotel."

They walked back to their waiting limousine barefoot, Scully's heels dangling from her fingertips, sand between their toes. Mulder gave Carl instructions to take them back to their hotel, and received another professional "Yes, Sir," along with a knowing smile that could have something to do with the amount of Scully's lipstick Mulder was currently wearing.

It was really difficult to surprise Mulder. If anything, his years on the X-Files had taught him to always expect the unexpected. But this one, he just never saw coming. He was slouched back into the buttery leather seats with his head tilted back and eyes closed, enjoying the rhythmic sway of the ride, when he felt a gentle tugging on his leg. He opened his eyes to find Scully kneeling on the plush carpeted car floor, her knees bent under her and both her hands braced on his legs.

"Scully, are you okay?" Could she be sick? He didn't think she'd drank that much. They had only had one glass of wine with dinner and then split a bottle of champagne on the beach. That was what – maybe three or four drinks total over about four hours? And the look on her face didn't indicate that she felt ill. What was she doing on the floor in front of him then?

And then, Oh Holy Christ, if ever the universe had shifted on its axis, that moment was now as he watched in disbelief as her manicured nails traced a line all the way up the inseam of his trousers and she began stroking him through the fabric. The effect was almost instantaneous, blood pumped into his groin, leaving his brain in the dust.

He groaned and shifted in his seat. "Scully, what, um...oh Christ." She was unbuckling his belt and making quick work of his button and zipper. His eyes darted quickly up to confirm that yes, indeed, the privacy partition was closed, thank God. She wouldn't, would she? In the back of a limousine? Maybe she just wanted to see him, or touch him, but not actually-

Air sucked into his lungs with a hiss as she pulled him free from his boxers and began stroking him up and down firmly. He didn't think he had ever gotten this hard, this rapidly before in his entire life – well, not since he was about fifteen. He was fully engorged, a dark purple-red nestled blissfully in her pale white palm. She continued stroking. He almost continued breathing. Almost.

And then she was moistening her lips and lowering her lead to him and his own mouth was hanging open in shock, his eyelids droopy as he felt the first touch of her hot tongue. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, she was sucking him all the way down in one long dive, and then sliding back up and swirling her tongue all the way up his entire length and then around the head. A long groan of pure pleasure released itself from the depths of him as one of his own hands sifted through her hair to rest gently at the back of her head.

An entire mantra of words and phrases, pleas and expressions paraded through his brain, mostly the soundtrack to his porn tapes, but all he managed was some moaning, a few "oh yeahs" and a lot of heavy breathing. This was, hands down, the best head he'd ever gotten in his life. Well, he might be biased because he was in love with her and yeah, it had been that long, but hell – this was at least in the top three anyway.

Just when he thought the fun was already off-the-charts, she started making this little humming sound in the back of her throat and her hand tightened around his base while her hot mouth stroked up and down on him. He groaned loudly and lifted his hips. She coughed once and pulled back before going down full force once again, this time scraping her nails against his sac. Yup, that was it. He had about thirty seconds until launch.

"Scully... you should stop..."

No stopping from her. More humming and fervent pumping.

"Uuuuh, Scully...I'm...too close..."

Twenty seconds and counting.

"Scully! God...not here....I want to be in you..." he moaned.   She kept going like the Energizer Bunny. His strangled voice eeked out something about it being a rented tux and his hand tugged desperately at her shoulder.

She pulled off him, cool air sweeping over his groin and he was immediately sorry for being responsible. He reacted quickly, squeezing himself at the tip firmly to stall an orgasm. She watched a tiny pearl of his moisture pool at the head of his cock and she swirled her tongue over her top lip, hungrily. Jesus. He clamped his eyes shut tight and groaned. He couldn't even look at her. If he did, there'd be no stopping it, whether her mouth was on him or not. Several minutes passed before he felt himself relax a little and he was able to open his eyes again.

She had slipped back up onto the seat next to him, breathing hard, sweeping mussed hair from her eyes and tucking it behind her ears again, all prim and proper.   

"Why'd you stop me, Mulder?" she panted. "I could have.....I wouldn't have left a mess." Her eyes sparked coyly and she licked her lips again.   Who the hell *was* this woman? Fox Mulder, meet Dana Scully, respected pathologist and fearless special agent by day, expert fellatio extraordinaire by night. How could he not have known this about her? Then again, how could he? It's not like it would have come up over pizza. "By the way, Mulder, I give the best head on the eastern seaboard, and I swallow. Pass me a pepperoni slice."

"Are you okay, Mulder?" her hand caressed his knee and he jumped, stumbling back to reality. "Relaaax," she purred.

His hand covered hers. "Just...just no more stimulation at the moment, unless you're not expecting us to, um, you know. Because I'm teetering, Scully.  Jesus Christ."

She giggled. "Well, we're about two blocks from the hotel, so perhaps you should pull yourself together."

Pull myself together. Like he was the one responsible for why he was slouched in the back of a Hollywood limo with his pants around his ankles and his dick twitching and staring at her.  She had officially awoken the beast. Oddly, she did not look afraid.

He winced and tucked himself away, not without significant discomfort.  This time, when he exited the limo, Carl smiled at him for an entirely different reason. Mulder was beyond embarrassment.

*************************************************************************************

Three staircases, one elevator, two long hallways, an envious look from a bellman, and lots of giggling later, he was hip deep in his partner with mounds of pillows and clothing strung around the room and the edge of the fitted sheet coming off the mattress. Was it his room or hers anyway? Unclear. His key card had opened the lock, but that meant nothing. They always requested two keys each and exchanged with one another anyway. He picked his face up from her cool blanket of hair to focus on the nightstand and saw the empty Diet Coke can from the night before. His room. He thrust harder and she responded with a tiny, high-pitched yelp and fingernails on his shoulder blades.

She was hot, smooth satin all around him, tight walls gripping, muscles taught, arcing and writhing to meet his frantic strokes. Their bodies crashed against each other like waves. He tried desperately to capture one tiny pink nipple in his mouth, but she was moving too much and every time he caught it, it popped from his lips. He tempered his strokes and steadied her with a hand to her hip, but she bucked against him. "No, no, no, no, no......Mulder, don't slow down.....oh God..." Her hands gripped his upper arms tightly, digging in. He clamped his eyes shut and put his whole body into it, driving into her hard and fast until he came in a shuddering groan, mouth open against her bare shoulder.

He rolled off and flopped over to the side of her, his heart galloping in his chest. She was breathing just as hard next to him. He hated asking. He always felt like he should know these things.  "Did you?" he panted.

"Yeah," her voice was breathy and light. "Oh yeah."

He smiled with satisfaction, slipping an arm under her to gather her to him. She snuggled in close, tucking her compact behind snugly against his groin and he half wondered if he might have another round left in him for later that night. Once upon a time he would have been all over her in about another half hour, but he had a feeling those days were long gone. Maybe in the morning, if she stayed, and with that thought, he pulled her tighter and nuzzled her neck. He could get used to this.

"Scully?"

"Hmmm..."

"Have you ever wondered why it is that women and men hit their sexual peaks at different times? I mean, supposing for a moment that there is some kind of a divine creator, why wouldn't He  - or She for that matter – create men and women to hit their sexual peaks simultaneously? Or even if we put all God conjecture aside, evolutionary biology has proven time and again that changes in a species will inevitably occur in order to ensure the propagation of said species. So you would assume that after millions of years or so, men and women would eventually end up in synch."

A sleepy, thoughtful sigh sounded from her and he could detect an indulgent smile in her response. "Mulder, that's nothing but a cultural myth. There is no scientific proof to corroborate that any such dichotomy exists."

He raised his head up on one elbow and gazed at her, incredulously. "Scully, not to be blunt here, but when I was 19 years old, I was a walking hard-on. I could get an erection twenty minutes after ejaculating, just from seeing a Nair commercial on TV. I could've had sex five, six times in one night. I'd get sore long before I couldn't get it up anymore. And now?" He glanced down between them where his dick lay curled up and content. "Well, let's just say Elvis has left the building and probably won't be offering any encores for at least a couple of hours."

She rolled to face him, her authoritative doctor expression firmly in place. "Okay, first you have to decide whether you're talking about the simple biological ability to reproduce, or sex as a recreational endeavor. Humans, both men and women, are most fertile during their late teens to early twenties. That is a proven fact. So if you're referring to sexual peak as the ability to make babies, then men and women are biologically in synch. When you mention staying power – the ability to produce an erection on the heels of a previous one, then, well yes, age plays a crucial role. Men in their late teens through their mid-twenties get more frequent, harder erections, and the refractory period in between is minimal. However, if you're talking about sex purely for the fun of it, then the idea of 'sexual peak' can't be narrowly defined by physical ability alone. The desire for and enjoyment of the sexual act itself should be taken into consideration. People in their thirties and older have the maturity and the experiences that make for better, more satisfying sex."

Having delivered her argument, she flopped back onto her pillow as if to say "There. Your turn." Mulder smiled at her, not just because she was so adorable in her know-it-all doctor mode, but also because her preoccupation with their conversation had created a welcome diversion from her usual modesty. She lay on her back with just the corner of the sheet draped over her, right at the pubic line. Her breasts were bare and the peaks of her nipples were like two little smiley faces wishing him a nice day.

"Huh," he said, smartly, tracing the circle of her areola with his fingertip. To her credit, she didn't even flinch, but he felt her nipple tighten even more and goose flesh form on her. "That's interesting. So you'd say, then, that you enjoy sex even more now than you did in your twenties?"

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. "Um, not that I have much empirical evidence to draw upon over the course of the last..." her voice drifted off with a dissatisfied puff of air. He wanted the number. How long, Scully? Had she possibly been getting anything over the years that he didn't know about? He didn't think so, but sometimes you think you know a person and-

"Yes, I enjoy it more now. A lot more," she said, interrupting his thoughts. He smiled at her candor and it turned him on mentally, even if his hard-on was lagging behind. He lowered his mouth to her nipple, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. It earned him a quiet purr and fingers in his hair. To think he could make her feel this good. His super hero complex was edified.

"So Scully," he mumbled to the pale brown ring orbiting her pink nipple. "While maturity and experience could be responsible for your heightened enjoyment, there's also the very strong possibility that your partner just might be an amazing lay."

She giggled and then shifted, parting her knees slightly. "I'm not going to lie to you. The thought has crossed my mind."

He skimmed one hand up the inside of her thigh, barely touching her. "And what did you conclude?"

"Mmm, nothing yet, I'm afraid. I'd say more information is needed to make an accurate determination. I'll think about it and get back to you."

His thumb brushed her labia and he felt her pelvic muscles tense in anticipation. "You do that," he whispered. "In fact, why don't you close your eyes and relax and see if any answers... come ...to you."

She snorted and then giggled again. "That's really bad, Mul-Oh God!" Her hips jolted at his touch and she released a shuddering breath.

He kissed her long and slow while he hand worked diligently at a pace that was anything but. His groin was tight to her hip, one of his legs slung over hers while he touched her and she noticed it before he did. She pulled her lips from his and glanced slowly down with brows lifted and a playfulness in her eyes. "So what was that you were saying about refractory periods and Elvis leaving the building?"

His eyes followed hers down.

"Because I think he might be back," she added.

He shook his head slowly in awe. "That is amazing. You....are good." They both chuckled and he went back to kissing her.

*************************************************************************************

The clock radio cast an eerie green glow across the bed and the tornado of bedclothes that told a pretty accurate story of the past couple of hours. The bedspread had slithered to the floor long ago, leaving a twisty mess of sheets and one cotton blanket that was currently covering Scully's bare ass. There were pillows somewhere, but he wasn't sure where. The fitted bottom sheet was hanging off the corner of the mattress closest to his feet and he felt the pilled scratchy material of the mattress pad underneath. The hospital corners never stood a chance.

As it turned out, he had not been up for a second round after all, which was altogether a little embarrassing, but he'd get over it. He had gotten almost, but not quite hard enough to penetrate, despite both oral and manual effort on her part. Another half hour would have probably done it, but she had already finished in style herself long before and he knew she was just too tired at that point. Her efforts at suppressing her yawns were endearing and polite, but he had stilled her hand and kissed her hair and whispered, "It's okay. Go to sleep." She was breathing slow and steady against his shoulder half a minute later.

The clock read 2:38. They had a 10:00 a.m. flight. An hour to shower, get dressed, and pack up, a half hour to grab a bagel and check out, forty minutes to the airport with morning traffic, another forty-five to check in at the airport and get through security. Holy shit. They needed to get up early. He managed to reach over and set the alarm without Scully even stirring, and then fell into a dreamless sleep.

*************************************************************************************

When he awoke again to his alarm, he was alone. He might have thought it was a dream if it weren't for the scent of her on the sheets and his hands. He was naked and sticky, a sheet spiraled around his bottom half. He wondered what time she left and more importantly, why. It was a little too early to call it a pattern with her; they had only been together three times. But he was beginning to wonder if she had morning after issues, and if the issue was the actual morning after or if it was him. He stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

She was waiting for him when he got down to the lobby, arguing with a manager about an extraneous charge on her bill. Her eyes darted briefly to acknowledge his presence before continuing her conversation. "There must be some kind of mistake," she said to the manager, whose nametag read Cliff and who had a serious comb-over going on. "I did not order any in-room movie."

Cliff smiled apologetically while tapping away at a keyboard. "Well, let me just double-check that charge, Ma'am, and maybe I can tell you exactly....oh yes, here it is." He hit the print button and quickly produced another paper, which he placed directly in front of Scully. "Right here it says that a movie was ordered from room 1551 last night at 11:34 p.m. The title of the movie was...well, you can see here for yourself," he said, pointing to the paper.

Scully's eyes narrowed and her complexion took on a noticeable flush. Then she pushed the paper back across the counter to Cliff and crossed her arms. Uh oh. Here it comes. Poor Cliff had clearly not been sufficiently warned about the dangers of pissing off Scully on less than six hours of sleep and no caffeine. "First of all, Sir, I was not even in my hotel room at 11:34 p.m. last night, as my FBI partner here can corroborate." She put special emphasis on the FBI part and Mulder noticed Cliff flinch at the mention. "And second of all," Scully continued, "even if I were, based on the title alone, I can assure you that *this* is most definitely not a movie that I would have rented. Now, my partner and I are catching a 10:00 flight back to D.C. and we are currently," she glanced at her watch, "seven minutes late leaving for the airport. So here is what's going to happen: you are going to remove the erroneous charge from my hotel bill, take care of expediting the charges to my business credit card, and then print me an accurate receipt. And you're going to have it done by the time I return in three minutes with a cup of coffee. Got it?"

Cliff smiled uncomfortably and nodded, taking the receipt from her and crumpling it in his hands. Mulder followed Scully across the lobby to the cafe to order two coffees and bagels for the cab ride.

"Hey Scully, when we get home, can you call my cell phone company for me? I think they overcharged me last month on my roaming charges. And while you're at it, maybe you can call around and see if you can get me a better rate on my car insurance."

No reaction from her as her heels clicked on the shiny floor of the lobby. Yeah, no coffee yet for her. Definitely not. His good sense told him to abort now and keep his mouth shut, but he was never good at heeding his own advice.

"So do you mutate into some kind of scary creature at the break of dawn or something?" he asked, jokingly.

She frowned at him in confusion and annoyance.

"I'm just asking because you always seem to disappear before morning. I wake up and you're gone. I don't know – maybe we need to open an X File on it."

She tossed him a warning look, rifling through her purse and pulling out a five dollar bill. "I'm going to hit the restroom. Get me a plain bagel with lite cream cheese and a coffee, one cream and-"

"No sugar, yeah, I know. How many years have we been ordering our coffee together, Scully? And it's on me," he said, handing her money back to her. She took it and stalked off to the bathroom. It was going to be a long flight home.

*************************************************************************************

They were six miles in the air and Scully had just downed two Advil and was leaning her head back against the seat next to him. They had a row all to themselves, which was all but necessary given Mulder's size. Unless he was either in an exit row or had the option of stretching his legs into the aisle or the space next to him, he was very uncomfortable in coach class. And since the Bureau did not pay for first class, he had gotten pretty adept at flirting with both ticketing agents and flight attendants in order to secure himself a little extra space.

From where they sat, they had a perfect view of Skinner, who sat across and three rows ahead of them, nursing a tomato juice and from what Mulder could tell, a respectable hangover. Skinner had taken a separate cab to the airport, but had met up with them at the gate to their flight. He looked tired, haggard, and unshaven. When Mulder had asked him how his night had been, the A.D. had shook his head with a roll of the eyes and said, "I'm too old for this shit." Mulder wasn't sure if 'this shit' referred to the partying or the twenty-something-year-old he had spent the evening with.

Mulder opened a bag of peanuts and offered Scully some, but she rolled her head back and forth against the seat. He cleared his throat. "So this, um, disappearing act you like to pull before daybreak, is this, like, one of your hard and fast rules, or what?"

She lifted her head and looked at him, brows knit defensively. "What are you talking about?"

"You know, the rules. No PDA near work, no action on the road, don't call you Snookums, and now, what? Be sure to leave skid marks before dawn?"

Her posture tensed and her mouth hung open for a few seconds before she composed herself. "We had a flight to catch-"

"With the alarm set for plenty of time to do it," he finished.

"I woke up early and I let myself out. I fail to see what the big deal is, Mulder."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I'm just getting things straight, that's all. Trying to figure out how this is supposed to work."

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

He shrugged. "This. Us. The way I figure it so far, it's we go out, we drink, we fuck, and you leave."

"Shhhh! Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "Skinner is three rows ahead of us, Mulder."

He gave a sarcastic snort. "Come on, Scully. Give the man a little credit, will ya? He's not an idiot."

She sighed and calmed a little. "I think you're making a big deal out of nothing, Mulder."

"So you're saying that if you didn't have somewhere to be the next morning, you'd stay?"

She avoided eye contact. "I fail to see the point of this conversation. Why does it matter?"

Jesus.

"Because it does! This is some kind of fucking joke, Scully." His voice started to rise a little again and she warned him with her eyes. He took a breath and quieted. "If I just wanted somebody in my bed for a few hours once in awhile, there are ways to get that without dealing with all this other...bullshit."

Her eyes sparked dangerously and she unbuckled her seatbelt, flinging the buckle aside. "I don't need this," she said, venomously, getting up and moving to an empty seat in the row behind them.

He sighed and put his hands over his face, rubbing his forehead. Well, that went well. Why was it this hard? He had never really had strong feelings about casual sex either way. It had its purpose and he had certainly engaged in it now and then, back when he used to actually have sex. But it was just different with her. That wasn't really what he wanted and he couldn't imagine it was what she wanted either. Unless it was. And then he'd have to decide if he could handle that kind of arrangement with her. He had a strong feeling he knew the answer to that, and certain parts of his anatomy that had grown very fond of her would not appreciate his decision.

He got up and moved back one row to sit next to her once again. This time they weren't alone in their row. An older woman, maybe seventy-something smiled politely down at her crossword puzzle and pretended not to notice the pretty woman next to her that seemed pissed off and the man invading her personal space.

"Mulder, go back to your seat. I don't want to talk about this here."

"Just hear me out for a minute. I'm sorry for what I said. Well, not really, actually."

She crossed her arms and leaned away from him, frowning.

"What I meant to say is that I'm sorry for how I said it. I'm not sorry for what I said."

Her posture softened just a little, but her guard was still up. He leaned in to her shoulder, his head tilted to the side, talking quietly into her ear. "I enjoy being with you and this is more than just sex for me." He noticed her glance toward their row mate to confirm that the woman was still pretending to ignore them. Satisfied, she redirected her attention back to him and he continued. "I'm not saying we need to figure all this out right now, Scully – what we're doing, what this is. I just- I just would appreciate it if maybe sometime, after we've made love, you wouldn't run out like the place is on fire."

She smirked a little. It was a concession and he'd take it.

"I don't run out like the place is on fire, Mulder."

"You do. A small fire. Smoke then." She smiled. He brushed the back of his hand against hers and she didn't pull away. "I'd like to add an addendum to the rules," he said.

She tilted her head, questioningly.

"What – you're the only one who can make up the rules? You have imposed three rules and if I'm not mistaken, I have complied unfailingly with all of them. I get a rule now."

"You called me Baby."

"What? I did not. When?"

"On the beach. You said 'I can sing some Lionel Ritchie for you, Baby,'"

He sighed and put up one hand in surrender. "I did. You're right." He made a face of mock seriousness and she smiled at him. "It won't happen again."

"What's your rule?" she asked, curiously.

"I would very much like it if...when we happen to be *together* on a weekend night, and you don't have to be anywhere the next morning, that you would consider staying. All night. As in, have breakfast with me. Maybe morning sex, but that's negotiable."

"You know how to make breakfast?"

"I make a very respectable omelette. Vegetables and all."

"You never have any vegetables," she argued.

"I'll buy some. As soon as we get home, I'll go out and get some. Do you prefer green peppers or red?"

"Both."

"I will get both. I'll get yellow too. All the peppers. I'll buy all the peppers in the store."

She was smiling at him now and so was the crossword puzzle lady. Mulder and Scully got up and moved back to their old seats.

"Okay," she said. He looked at her. "Okay, I can do that. Stay sometime. On a weekend," she said, seriously, finger raised.

"You could even bring a few things over."

She looked at him cautiously and arched an eyebrow.

"I mean, you know, a change of clothes or something to sleep in, or whatever. Just if you want."

"I don't see the point," she said and his heart started to sink again. Then she smiled at him coyly. "Why would I need something to sleep in?"

If Skinner hadn't been sitting three rows up, he would have kissed her. He leaned in anyway.

"Don't," she warned.

"I know, I know. You don't have to say it. You're really in love with A.D. Skinner."

She sighed dramatically, trying to suppress a laugh. "Whatever shall I do?"

Mulder peered over the seats, pretending to be sizing up Skinner. "I can take him," he said in false bravado.

"No, you can't."

"No, I can't," he agreed with a sigh.

They both chuckled and Scully reached for his open package of peanuts, shaking some out onto her palm.


	10. Chapter 10

Early May, 2000

 

Scully's phone was ringing as she juggled four bags of groceries and her purse outside her apartment. She flung the door open, deposited the bags onto the hardwoods with a loud thump, and dove for the receiver on the end table. A cantaloupe rolled across the floor, trying to make a get-away.

"Hello," she said, breathlessly.

"Hey, it's me."

"Hey you. What's up?"

"So I was just thinking that it's Friday."

"Yes, it is," she said, shifting her weight onto one hip and smiling. "All day, in fact." She could hear him dribbling his basketball in the background.

"Do you wanna come over and watch a movie and hang out?"

"Will there be popcorn?"

"Yea-um, hang on." The sound of him walking and opening a cupboard followed. "Yes, there will be," he replied, in a surprised tone of voice. She heard cellophane crinkling.

"Well, then I don't see how I can refuse such an invitation."

"It would be unwise. It's Orville Redenbacher."

She chuckled. "I have groceries to put away and then I'd like to go for a run and grab a shower, so maybe-"

"Eight?"

"Eight's good. I'll see you then."

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"It's the weekend."

She could hear the smile in his voice. "Yes, it is. See you later, Mulder."

"Bye."

*************************************************************************************

He was wrong about her wanting to keep things casual. At least she thought so anyway. If she had wanted only the sex, she was pretty certain she could have propositioned him and ended up in his bed long before she did. And it wasn't that she was overly confident in her abilities to seduce either. Far from it, actually, not to mention, sorely out of practice. But let's face it, he was a man. And in her limited experience, it didn't take much.

No, it was more than that with Mulder. It always had been, which was why it had taken them this long to get to where they were now. She wanted to stay the night. To wake up to the feel of his smooth, naked body next to hers, his soft breath on her neck, his morning erection prodding her behind. To make love again in the shower, then eat toast and coffee in bed together, passing newspaper sections back and forth and steeling orange juice kisses. What wasn't to love about that? But then what?

What if he asked her to stay for the day, to go for a walk in the park or catch a matinee? Then what? Would she stay the next night too? And if they started spending entire weekends together, then what? Would they do their laundry together and cook their meals and balance their checkbooks? Then what? Would he eventually end up spending more nights at her apartment than he would in his own? Would she acquire a drawer in his dresser and a shelf in his medicine cabinet? Then what? Because she had been there. And when you got *there*, there was always a 'then what?'   

She enjoyed being with him, being his best friend, loving him, and of course, making love to him. She just wasn't sure she was ready for the 'then what.'  She had never been in a relationship that hadn't eventually ended, and that was simply not an option for them. She couldn't imagine, could not fathom the thought of not having him in her life. What she wanted was a guarantee, an assurance that this would work for them. But there were no guarantees when it came to love. And she wasn't losing him, no matter what.

She did want it all. She just had to give herself permission to have it.

*************************************************************************************

She knocked on his door at 8:15. "It's open," she heard him holler. She walked in and smelled something burning in the kitchen. His head poked around the corner.

"Perfectly, fashionably late, Scully."

"It's your fault. I used to be habitually early. I have a good excuse, though." She made her way into the kitchen. "What is that smell?"

"I burned the first batch of popcorn. What's the excuse?"

"How the hell do you burn microwave popcorn, Mulder? There's even a button on the microwave specifically for popcorn."

"Yes, I know that now. What's the good excuse?"

"No hot water, can you believe that? I came back from my run to find that the hot water in half of the apartments was turned off. Some kind of a pipe issue. It's supposed to be fixed by tomorrow."

"You could've showered here," he offered.

She smirked. "Yeah, thanks. Um, maybe in the morning," she said, casually, not making eye contact with him as she felt him studying her in surprise. "My neighbors let me shower in their apartment."

"Who? The two old ladies with the snappy Pekinese?"

"Nope," she smiled. "The young couple – Ms. 'Give It To Me Harder' and Mr. 'Yeah, Baby, Yeah.'" 

Mulder laughed out loud.

"They're nice enough," she said. "Just...enthusiastic. And they have a very loud, brass headboard. I'm considering buying them a new, quieter one with pads on the back and having it delivered to them anonymously."

"You'd be surprised at how common anonymous bedroom furniture delivery is."

She looked at him quizzically for a moment, then crossed to the window sill and picked up his tiny potted plant. "Your plant's still alive."

"I have no idea why. It just won't die, despite my best efforts."

She chuckled. "You should transfer it to a bigger pot. It's outgrown this little one."

He was on his knees on the floor, reaching into a cupboard and making loud clattering sounds before emerging with a large glass bowl, presumably for the popcorn. "Nah, that would be testing fate. I barely water the thing. I go away for days at a time. I'm convinced the plant is a sadist."

Scully carried the little fern to the kitchen sink and turned the water on, gently rotating the plant under the kitchen sprayer. "You should get a mister bottle for it. Ferns should be misted instead of having water dumped in their pots. And they prefer not to be touched."

She felt his eyes resting on her, watching her. "Do you want it?" he asked.

"No. It likes it here. It likes you, I think."

He was smiling at her now, amused. "Maybe I should get a second one. Another of its kind. A mate for it."

She nodded her head without turning around. "A mate is good."

A warm touch rested at the small of her back. "Come on, let's go watch a movie."

*************************************************************************************

It wasn't her kind of movie, but she didn't care. It was a stupid movie about a groundhog that her brothers would have found funny. When she had voiced her protest, Mulder had suggested, with a wag of his brows, that she choose another from his extensive movie collection. She told him Caddyshack would be just fine and then made a two-pointer into the wastebasket with her beer cap. He missed.

Halfway through the movie she kicked off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her on the couch, migrating closer to his warmth. His upper arm rested casually next to her shoulder and she was overly aware of tan sinewy flesh, taut muscles, and soft hairs that tickled her. And the warmth. She was drawn to it. She thought about him covering her like a blanket and it did nothing to help her concentrate on the movie, not that this particular story took much brain power to follow.

Minutes later, she wasn't sure exactly how many, he had snuck up on her and stolen a kiss, one hand cupping her cheek and the other resting on her knee. It was soft and slow, almost reverent and shy, as if he wondered how his advance might be received. It had been two weeks since the movie premiere in Los Angeles and they had lost themselves in their work, as always. There had been lunches and a few casual dinners and lots of phone calls, but nothing more. It was in his eyes, though. Over case files and in meetings, in elevators and when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Desire. She felt it too, of course, she just hid it better.

Then the Genie case had happened this week. There had been invisible dead men and explosions and wishes gone terribly wrong. She had made a fool out of herself in front of her colleagues, and then watched her partner spend a day and a half with an attractive woman following him around. She had been jealous, but she thought she'd done a good job of hiding that too. It always snuck up on her and reared its ugly head when she least expected it. She and the green-eyed monster went way back.

Once she had found a woman's name and phone number in Jack's coat pocket. They had been seeing each other for almost six months at the time, sleeping together for almost as long. She had followed up by searching his cell phone while he was in the shower and coming up with five instances of calls to the same number over the previous forty-eight hours. She had even listened in on his voice mails. Someone named Susan had left three messages from that same number, asking him to call her as soon as possible. She had proceeded to spend the entire weekend brooding, spying on him, and generally treating him like shit until he had asked her what the hell was going on. She had thrown his cell phone at him, accidentally clipping the side of his jaw, calling him a son-of-a-bitch, and demanding to know who Susan was. He had responded with a patient smile, led her gently to the edge of the bed and sat her down. Then he had dialed his voice mail and calmly asked her to listen to another message, one she had apparently missed in her snooping. "Hi Jack, it's Susan Herr calling. Chuck's thirty-fifth birthday is coming up next month and I'm planning a surprise party for him. I wondered if you could help me get in touch with some of the guys from Phi Beta Kappa? Anyway, give me a call as soon as you can." Susan was the wife of Jack's college fraternity brother. Dana had felt like an idiot. Jack thought it was cute. He had tipped her back on the bed and proceeded to make them both late for work.

Mulder was still kissing her, chastely, sipping from her mouth with those full, beautiful lips. She opened just a little, but he seemed in no hurry, which made her want him even more. She loved when he was like this – tentative, fourteen-year-old boy shy, hand resting gently at her waist shy, afraid to get caught in the act by her parents shy. Then her mind flashed to two weeks ago in California. His thumbs holding her open, his tongue laving hungrily at her pink center, his hardness prodding her, impatiently, his need so desperate that he forgot to ask if she was ready.  She loved him when he was like that too.

Their mouths slid together. The movie played on. His hand lifted the hem of her shirt and rubbed her lower back. "We're missing the movie," she whispered.

"We should stop then," he said, unconvincingly.

She wasn't sure if he meant the movie or the kissing. She only had a vested interest in the second.

"Mmm, we really should," she agreed.

"Tell me when," he said, blowing at the soft spot under her ear.

She sucked in a breath and tilted her head. "Not fair." Her eyes fluttered shut and gooseflesh formed on her. She was certain that her hardened nipples were visible through the thin cotton of her white shirt, but that was okay. They weren't the only erect things between them at the moment.

Harnessing every ounce of willpower she had left, she pulled back, smoothing her hair and putting a little distance between them. "Let's finish the movie," she said, straightening her shirt. He took it in stride, but she didn't miss his shift against the leather cushions and his subtle adjustment of himself.  

*************************************************************************************

The credits began to roll and loud music was silenced with the press of a button on the remote. The room plunged into near darkness, the only light a couple of candles flickering on the bookshelf, the only sound the bubbly hum of the fish tank.

Mulder hit rewind on the remote and the tape began to whirr. Then he carefully placed the remote on the coffee table and leaned to kiss her softly, the rough pad of his thumb tilting her chin up. Her head dipped to find the right angle and without much forethought, her lips parted to him. Still, he was gentle, in control, exceedingly tender.

When he finally broke the kiss, he was rubbing her upper arms affectionately. She felt comforted, safe, like they had all the time in the world. It felt different than it had the last couple of times they had been together. Measured, solid, sure.  She wasn't surprised when he said it. "Stay. Please." His voice was low and soothing to her, a balm to treat every wound she'd ever had. "I want to make love to you, and when I'm done, I don't want you to leave."

It sounded like the best idea she'd heard in a lifetime.

He led her to his bedroom and undressed her slowly, savoring every inch of new skin as it was revealed. She didn't think she had ever felt this loved. She had had men undress her and tell her she was beautiful before. Had had men kiss her with raw need in their eyes. She had felt wanted before, lusted after, even loved a few times. But it had never been like this. She had never been truly worshipped. She could not imagine any other man making love to her ever again. The epiphany hit like a tidal wave and emotion flooded her senses. Her breath caught sharply and her eyes swamped.

He looked at her with concern. "Scully?"

"I'm okay," she whispered. "I just-oh God, Mulder, I...I hope you know that I-" she faltered, her voice catching.

"I know, Scully. I do too." He kissed her tenderly, but passionately and then laid her back on his bed, smoothing his hands over her entire body, inch by inch. She closed her eyes and sighed, arching into his touch and letting herself get carried by the moment.

When he was finally poised above her, she cupped his face in her hands. "Slow, Mulder. I want it slow. Make it last."

He locked eyes with her as he entered her, then stroked carefully and deliberately so she could feel every inch of him inside her body. At times he pushed so incredibly deep and then held himself still, ceasing all movement and she could feel him pressing against her cervix. He wrapped his arm all the way around and underneath her, clutching her body to his while he made love to her mouth with his lips and tongue. They rocked together, skin pressed tightly together. He held her leg up with her knee bent. She came quietly, her body quaking and shuddering around him as he held his mouth to hers, kissing her, whispering, "Yes, Scully....yes, yes, yes."

He followed within minutes, pushing into her feverishly, sporadically, and then one final deep, hard stroke before his entire body went taut and she actually felt him pulsating inside her, the rush of fluid. And then his body deflated and he listed over to the side, half on and half off her, resting his weight on his hip, strong arms still enveloping her.

He kissed her bare shoulder several times before pulling out. She felt the loss immediately and whimpered. He chuckled low and kissed her again. "I left candles burning in the living room. I'll be right back." He trotted off, naked and unself-conscious, his still half hard cock swinging gently.

She stretched and raked her fingers through her hair, then rolled lazily from the bed, bunching the top sheet and dragging it off with her to the bathroom and shutting the door. She cleaned up and found her toothbrush there, still awaiting her return in the holder next to his.

After cleaning up, she left the bathroom to find him back in the bed, waiting for her, a glass of water on the nightstand by her side of the bed. She smiled shyly and trailed the sheet with her. He reached for her playfully as she went by, dragging her down onto the bed and on top of him.

He fingered the sheet and smiled at her. "So I can see that we're going to have problems with Naked Saturdays, aren't we?"

She quirked a brow. "Naked Saturdays, Mulder?"

He nodded, running a finger over her clavicle and tracing the line where the sheet met her skin. "Only on the second Saturday of each month, and well, tomorrow just happens to be-" he held up his hands and clicked his tongue apologetically.

She shook her head and smiled at him. "How convenient."

He kept looking at her and eventually she averted her gaze. "I've seen you naked, Scully."

"I know that."

"So why bother with-" he slid one hand underneath the sheet to caress her flat stomach.

She shrugged, feeling oddly like a child being censured for something silly.

The palm of his hand made circles on her skin, igniting heat underneath. "Can I ask you a question?"

She nodded, folding one arm under her head.

"What don't you like about your body? What are you self-conscious about?"

She shrugged and bit her lip, her cheeks feeling warm.

"There must be something or you wouldn't be re-enacting your own little version of Animal House with my sheets, which are clean by the way, in case you wondered."

She chuckled silently, but didn't answer him, tugging his shoulder subtly to try and pull him down into a kiss.

"Nuh uh. Nope," he smiled. "You're trying to distract me with your feminine wiles, but it's not going to work because we're going to talk about this instead."

Her fingernails scraped at his upper back and she ran the flat of her tongue enticingly up his throat, closing her whole mouth over his Adams apple. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he pulled back with a quiet hiss. "Nice try, my little vixen, but I'm tough as steel."

She gave him the brow and her hand drifted lower to close around his cock. He jumped. "Mmm, not quite yet, but there's potential," she smiled.

"All right, Scully, I'll go first if it'll make you feel better. Let's see..." He took a deep breath and exhaled. "I have big feet." He wiggled them in demonstration. "Not just big, but huge. Clown feet. Size thirteen and my toes are long and bony. Whenever I'm in crowds, people are always stepping on my feet because they stick out so far."

She smiled. "Look on the bright side. You know what they say about men with big feet."

He chuckled. "And in your expert opinion, Doctor Scully, would you say it's true? What they say about men with big feet?"

She arched her eyebrows coyly. "Well, I'm not sure if there's any scientific basis for the correlation, but from a woman's perspective?" She pursed her lips and looked down, demurely. "I'd say that yes, there just might be some truth to it after all."

"Thank you, I think." He pinched her behind gently. "Okay, batter up, Scully. Your turn."

She sighed. "My thighs. I've always hated my thighs. Whenever I gain weight, it always goes straight there, without fail. And I have pale skin, so not only are they fat, but they're pasty white and fat." She huffed out a breath.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Mulder, don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. It's just that...I-I don't see...what do you weigh, Scully, all of a hundred pounds?"

"I fluctuate between one oh five and one ten, usually."

"And help me out here, but how in the world could any sane human being consider that fat? You're tiny, Scully. I mean, I'm surprised you even set off automatic doors. Can you even donate blood? In fact, I'm not even sure you should be riding in the front seat of a car."

"Very funny, Mulder. I know I'm not fat. I just have a love/hate relationship with my thighs, that's all."

"Let me see them," he said, slowly moving the sheet aside until she was naked from the waist down. She let him, but she closed her eyes for it. She felt his hands on her, palms running slowly up and down one leg, then the other. "I have to vehemently disagree, Scully. They're the curviest part of your body. They're smooth and creamy and sexy as hell." His lips brushed her inner thigh and she shuddered, then caught her breath.

"I hate my scar too," her hand pushed the sheet a little higher until her lower abdomen was exposed,  the slightly puckered spot where her old gunshot wound had healed over.

He kissed it. "Yup, got one of those too," he said, pointing to the scar from his own gunshot wound on his shoulder. "Some chick shot me."

Scully smiled at him, brushing over the scar tissue with her thumb. "What a bitch."

"She was really hot, though."  His mouth continued to hover over her flat stomach, hot breath bathing her. "Chicken lips."

"What?" she said, with a startled laugh.

"I have chicken lips."

"You do not, Mulder. I like them. They're full and luscious." She tipped his head up and put her finger to his lips. He puckered them out and she giggled, strumming them with her thumb.

"Have you checked out my profile lately?" He turned his head to the side. "Cluck, cluck."

"Bring those chicken lips up here so I can kiss them." She tugged on his upper arms and he crawled up her body to find her waiting mouth. They kissed, a lazy mix of long lip locks and gentle pecks. Finally he pulled his head up and glanced down at the only place on her body still covered by the sheet. He nuzzled the fabric covering her breasts. "Please tell me you don't have a problem with these, Scully."

She offered a tentative smile and her shoulder lifted a little indifferently. "They're not too small for you?"

He raised his head and studied her, a distinct frown between his brows. "What would ever give you that impression?"

"Come on, Mulder, I've seen the women you're attracted to." Her voice was quiet and she was aware of the flush in her cheeks.

His frown deepened. "What the- what are you talking about?"

She stayed quiet, sucking in her bottom lip and keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling above.

"You mean the tapes? The magazines?"

She gave a half nod, still avoiding eye contact.

He laughed out loud. "Jesus, Scully. You've got to be kidding me."

"I don't look like that, Mulder. Not even close."

"No, you don't, thank God. You think I prefer a pair of hard, fake silicone tit-" he paused mid sentence, took a breath and continued, "breasts to the real, honest to goodness thing?" He slid one hand underneath the sheet covering her and locked eyes with hers, seeking permission. She released the corner of fabric that she had been holding and allowed him to peel away the last layer covering her. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her and she held her breath. Yes, of course he had seen her naked. Several times, in fact. But she had never had him actually study her body before. It was unnerving. She desperately wanted to cover herself again, but didn't.

She felt his fingers lightly brush the underside of one breast, tracing up and around to circle her areola. Her nipples peaked and she arched her back to his touch. God, it felt amazing. He moved to her other breast and did the same thing. "So soft," he whispered. "Round and firm and perfect." He raised his head to lock eyes with hers. "I wouldn't change a thing, Scully." And she knew he meant it.

They made love again and when they were both completely sated, he spooned up behind her and pillowed her head on his arm, his knee nestled between her smooth legs, a tangle of limbs. The fan across the room oscillated lazily, blowing cool air across their naked bodies. She shivered and he pulled a sheet to cover them, kissing her temple, her cheekbone, then her lips. "Will you be here when I wake up?" he asked.

"Yes," she smiled contentedly, threading her fingers through his and resting her face against his hand.


	11. Chapter 11

Early June, 2000

 

Scully made her way swiftly from the plane into the Portland airport terminal and made a beeline for the bathroom, calling to Mulder that she'd meet him in baggage claim. She used the toilet and washed her hands, then stood at the sink, steadying herself with her eyes closed, trying to fend off another wave of nausea. It had been happening on and off all week. She hadn't vomited yet, but there had been some close calls, even a few at work. At first she attributed it to mild dehydration and a hotter-than-average June for D.C.  She had upped her fluid intake and watched the carbs, increasing her fruits and vegetables. But it had been more than a few days and she was still having several strange, unexplained bouts of nausea and mild dizziness each day. Perhaps she really was coming down with something. The flu in the summer was unusual, but not unheard of.

She splashed some cool water on her face, dabbed with a dry paper towel, touched up her lipstick, and left to find Mulder. It was already after 4 p.m. and they still needed to get their rental car and make the hour-long drive to Bellefleur. She knew Mulder was anxious to get going on the case and pay a visit to Billy Miles, but truthfully, she didn't know if she had it in her. She felt like she could fall asleep on her feet right about now, even thought she had slept for almost the entire flight. She hadn't eaten anything more than an apple since breakfast and that probably wasn't helping her energy level any. But for some reason, she felt anything but hungry at the moment. In fact, the idea of food rather repulsed her. What she really wanted was a hot shower and a cool pillow, but she suspected it would be hours before she'd see either.

Mulder had already retrieved her suitcase by the time she reached baggage claim and had his cell phone up to his ear with a pained look on his face. She questioned him with her eyes.

"Skinner," he mouthed silently, followed by "Pissed off." Scully could hear their boss's voice from four feet away. Mulder held his phone away and tried to hand it to her.

"NO!" she mouthed. He put it back to his ear and rolled his eyes, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Yes Sir, Agent Scully is right here with me."

She exhaled long and deep through puffed cheeks and rubbed her forehead. This was all she needed. To get her ass chewed on top of the nausea and exhaustion. Just perfect.

"I understand your concern-" Mulder said.

More loud, muffled angry sounds. Scully might have picked up a couple of "R" words. Maybe 'responsibility' or 'requisition.' Or it could have very well been 'rat's ass,' as in 'I don't give a-'

"Sir, Agent Scully and I both agreed that there was a situation out here in Oregon that warranted our immediate attention....yes, I am aware of the protocol for...yes, it was very last minute, however, there really was no other way to....yes, okay. Yes, she's right here. Hold on a minute."

Mulder held the phone out to her and once again she mouthed the word "NO!"

"He wants to talk to you," Mulder whispered, covering the receiver with his palm. "Our requisition turned up on Kersh's desk not five hours after our audit this morning.  Apparently, two, six-hundred dollar, last minute plane tickets wasn't what the Director had in mind by 'improved fiscal responsibility.' Skinner's taking the brunt of it. Just talk to him, Scully. He likes you better."

She surrendered and held her hand out for the phone. "Hello, Sir."

"Agent Scully, is there a reason why I was informed by my supervisor that two of my agents happen to be clear across the country without my knowledge?"

"Sir, Agent Mulder and I received a call from Bellefleur, Oregon this morning, from Billy Miles, a man who is familiar to us from the first case we worked on together seven years ago. Agent Mulder and I have no reason to doubt Billy Miles's story, Sir. In my opinion, the situation definitely warrants further investigation."

An audible sigh from the other end of the receiver. "More abductions?"

"Yes. At least one confirmed. Possibly more."

"And you believe this, Agent Scully?"

"I-I-I believe that something unexplained is occurring within the community of Bellefleur. And I believe it-"

"Warrants further investigation. Yeah, I got that." Another loud sigh. "Just...call me with an update when you know anything. I'll be busy putting out fires around here."

"Thank you, Sir. We'll keep you informed on the status of the investigation."

Mulder nodded emphatically and put his two hands together in gratitude.

She hung up and handed Mulder's phone back to him, placing one hand over her eyes and squeezing at her temples.

"I told you he liked you better," he said.

"I have no idea why we still have jobs."

"Skinner is on our side, Scully. I've told you that before."

"Maybe so, but there's only so much he can do when he has Kersh breathing down his neck, Mulder. One of these days, we will have used up our last favor." She caught her breath and waivered a little on her feet, placing one hand on Mulder's elbow.

He grasped her arm. "You okay, Scully? What's wrong?"

She took a deep breath. "Nothing, Mulder. I'm fine. Let's get our car."

*************************************************************************************

Her shaking had stopped, but he was worried about her. She just didn't seem like herself. He could count on one hand the number of days she'd been sick, really sick, since her cancer went into remission over three years ago. He pulled her tighter to him and he felt her breath expel as she relaxed. She had been quiet for minutes now and he was starting to sense that he may have said the wrong thing.

"Scully, I didn't mean...when I said that it had to end now, that you should consider leaving the X Files, I didn't mean...shit, did you think I meant us?"

Her tiny body tensed almost imperceptibly. "I don't know, did you?" she whispered to his hand tucked beneath her face.

"No," he sighed. "God, no. You can't get rid of me that easily."

She huffed out a breath and then sniffed.

"I just meant that there has to be more, Scully. The X Files isn't all there is. Or it doesn't have to be. Not for you... or for me anymore."

"What does that mean, Mulder? What do you want?"

"I want you to be happy."

"I belong with you...doing our work, fighting together for the truth-"

He sighed and shook his head. "I don't know what that is anymore."

"That's not true, Mulder."

He lapsed into silence, not having the emotional energy left to fight her on this. How many times had he told her to leave? To get out, be a doctor, live her life? She was the most stubborn creature he'd ever known. The thought had actually occurred to him on more than one occasion, that he could push her away. That if he really, truly loved her, he would tell her he didn't. That he never had, that he didn't want her in his life any longer. If he did, she would go. She had too much pride not to. She would quietly leave him and he'd probably never see her again. And maybe, eventually, she would move on. Find someone else who could love her and not endanger her, someone who could give her the life she deserved.

But when all was said and done, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was a selfish bastard. She was the reason he got out of bed in the morning, put one foot in front of the other, even bothered to draw a breath. He would never be able to let her go.

"You're right, Scully. I do know what the truth is. It's you. It's you and me," he whispered, caressing her cheek, but her back rose and fell steadily against him with each deep, measured breath. She had fallen asleep and he didn't have the heart to awaken her, not even for his heartfelt confessions.

He reached to the nightstand and turned out the lamp, then peeled back the covers and got in behind her, pulling her close and nosing her silky hair. Sleep didn't come right away, but rather hovered just out of reach, like it often did with him. He hadn't mentioned it to her, not wanting to upset or alarm her unnecessarily, but he felt plagued by the notion that something was on the horizon for him, for both of them. Something powerful and momentous, life-altering. He sensed something about to shift, like when the air changed right before a storm and everything in the path of it went on high alert. It wasn't fear exactly, but something similar, more like hyper-sensitivity.

He had always felt that the future was best left to be discovered and not foreseen. Until now, he had never wanted to know what lie ahead for him, good or bad. But at this moment, he would have given just about anything for a glimpse at the horizon. The one thing he knew for sure was that she would be his strength, she would sustain him.

*************************************************************************************

He had followed her into the hallway, her heels tapping out a Morse Code on the shiny tile floor and her hands steepled in quiet reserve. He knew what she would say even before it came and he was prepared to fight her on it. He had to go and she would insist on following him. He wouldn't let her this time.

"I'm not going to risk losing you," he said.

"I won't let you go alone." Her response, unguarded and raw with emotion.

He embraced her right there in the hallway, both of them unconcerned with their public display. He would have kissed her, but what he felt right then wasn't passion; it was emotional desperation, pure and unadulterated devotion to her. He couldn't have cared less if they were seen. In all honesty, he hadn't cared for a long time. She had been the one who clung steadfastly to rules of propriety regarding their relationship. Right now, none of it mattered to either of them.

"When are you leaving?" she whispered, her eyes edgy and moist.

"Soon. Today."

She nodded, their foreheads pressed together. Her hand clasped his tightly. "I'll be back, Scully. As soon as I can. I promise."

Not even a nod this time, just a deep breath expelled through quivering, open lips. Once upon a time, he would have done this without a second thought. Leaving. Now, as he walked away from her standing there in the hallway with dewy eyelashes, he felt like he was leaving his soul behind.

*************************************************************************************

She awoke and sat upright, sweaty and disoriented with her heart galloping in her chest. Her eyes darted around the room feverishly. Oh yes, here. The clock read 2:15 a.m., only an hour since she had awoken last, that time from yet another round of nausea. It was normal and to be expected, said the nurse with the kind smile who kept asking her if there was anyone she could call for her. No, thank you. There wasn't. No, the baby's father wasn't able to be here after all. He had answered to a mysterious beacon in the sky and had been sucked up into an unidentified aircraft, most likely a spaceship, and had been transported to God-knows-where. But not to worry, he'd be back just as soon as he was able.

She didn't say that. If she had, she might not ever get out of the hospital. And she needed to if she was ever going to find him.

There would be doctor's appointments and ultrasounds and childbirth classes. She'd need someone to help her put together stupid plastic baby things, and tell her she didn't look fat and argue with her over baby names. How could she have ever thought that she wanted to do this alone? How could she have ever thought she could?

When she had first received the news, she had responded as a doctor, not a woman, not a mother. She had calmly explained that it had to be a mistake. She was unable to conceive. It had been confirmed by reliable tests and this was simply not possible. She had politely, but firmly demanded to see her test results, and when that didn't satisfy her, she had requested repeated counts of her blood HCG levels. Finally, after three such tests, her doctor had held her hand and kindly asked her if she wished to meet with a counselor to discuss her options.

It had taken her a few awkward moments to puzzle through the meaning of the gesture before her stomach had clenched in realization. Jesus Christ, no. That wasn't what she needed. What she needed was for the father of her child to be sitting in that ugly, puke green vinyl chair next to her bed, stealing her hospital food jello and getting all the Jeopardy answers right. I'll take Where's My Baby Daddy for a hundred, Alex.  

She couldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time without waking up panicked or nauseated or both. If she cried any more, they were going to put her on a continuous saline drip for fluid loss and a mild sedative for anxiety. She couldn't help it. She just got quieter about it and flipped her pillow every so often to find a dry spot that wasn't tear-soaked.

She drank fruit juice to make everyone happy and chased it with ginger ale to keep herself from throwing it up. Whatever it took to get out of there and start looking for him. Every minute counted. Cells were dividing rapidly within her and time was ticking. She had something the size of a jellybean inside her right now that might eventually have brown hair and hazel eyes and the genetic propensity toward defying all authority. She was ill prepared to teach it how to sink a three-pointer from center court.

Intelligent life from other planets would have to get in line because she needed him more and so did their child. She hugged her still-flat stomach and rolled over, stifling a sob. If she dug her nails into the palm of her hand, she almost forgot about how much her soul hurt.

*************************************************************************************

She unlocked the door of her apartment and swung it open, standing there on the threshold for a long moment before entering. Her shoes echoed hollowly on the hardwood floors and her keys clinked when she tossed them on the table.

Walter Skinner entered and stood behind her, awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. "Why don't you take a few days off," he suggested quietly.

She didn't turn around, but shook her head slowly.

"Scully, you don't need to be-"

"What I need to it find him," she said, her tone insistent and clear. She spun to face him, her hand placed surreptitiously on her stomach. "And I don't want to waste any time."

He glanced down and nodded, uncomfortably. "We can start tomorrow, as soon as you get in-"

"Today." Her eyes brimmed and she took a deep breath and fought back the emotion. "All I need is a shower and a change of clothes."

She saw the doubt and concern in his eyes.

"Walter, I'm fine. I'm pregnant, not incapacitated. I won't sit here and do nothing. I need to find him; I don't have a choice."

His eyes drifted to the hand resting on her stomach and he offered the slightest of nods. She hadn't spelled things out for him, but her boss was a smart man.

"Thank you for the ride home."

He walked to her and in an uncharacteristic gesture of emotion, reached out to squeeze her hand. "I'm ready whenever you are. I promise you, we'll find him."

She nodded and squeezed back, her lip trembling, betraying her classic stoicism.

Skinner left quietly and she went to her bedroom and began peeling layers of clothing from her body. She tried to strip away desperation and anger, fear and loneliness, but some things just coursed through your veins.

Her sobs wracked her as she stood bent beneath the showerhead until the water went cold and her fingers wrinkled. The craving to get into bed naked and pull the covers over her head for the next seven months was nearly overwhelming. Jesus, she needed to get her shit together if she was going to be any good to Mulder or to the tiny bundle of his DNA that had taken up residence inside her body.

 As she dressed, she winced while pulling the straps of her bra into place, her breasts tender and swollen, another clue she had overlooked. She had just assumed that she was in for one mother of a period. God Dana, you're a doctor, how could you have missed all this? Nausea, dizziness, tender breasts. No period. For how long? She padded to her kitchen in her underwear, flipping through the calendar hanging by her refrigerator.  Her eyes scanned the weeks, trying to remember where they had been, what they had been doing. Well, yes that, of course. That's how she got into this mess in the first place.

Over two months. She had not had a period in over two months. It wasn't all that unusual. She had been irregular since her abduction. And besides, why in the world would she even consider that she might be pregnant? Countless tests, an IVF attempt, and rivers of tears had told her that she would not have a child. She had tried everything, except what she had wanted to do with him for years. Who could've known that would do the trick, she thought, the hint of a smile forming on her reluctant mouth. If he were here, he would make testosterone-infused jokes about bionic sperm or super virility. She'd roll her eyes or offer a disapproving smile, he'd wag his brows and reach for her, and they'd probably end up in bed together.

She stumbled back to her room to finish getting dressed, pausing in front of the mirror in her bedroom. For about the hundredth time since she'd gotten the news, she placed her palms flat against her abdomen and choked back the emotions. It felt like a dream, hazy and surreal. A baby. His child. Curious, intelligent, stubborn, and fiercely independent, with wit and charm and a wicked sense of humor.

"Hi Baby," she whispered aloud, smiling through her tears and sniffling, a tiny laugh escaping her. "Hi. It'll be okay. Everything will be fine."

Then she buttoned her blouse and slipped on her suit and heels, did her hair and makeup, and walked out her apartment door to go bring him home.   

 

 

THE END

 

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